"Thank Christ," he mutters as he pushes inside. He does feel relief, but it's a distant kind of relief, half unimportant, because Neil.

Neil could be dying in a hospital bed. Alone.

He leans back against the wall by the door, swiping both hands down his face--the scabbed-over scratch under his eye rough under his fingers. "Neil," he says. "They--fuck, Neil's sick. They took him."