[ Carver makes a brittle noise. It isn’t laughter. Just something giving way in his chest and suddenly he’s moving. Going to the lone bottle of vodka he keeps hidden away among the rest of the supplies. He doesn’t allow himself to drink himself to sleep, no matter how bad the dreams get. But this is different, isn’t it?
It feels different.
He gets the bottle out and takes a long swig, rocking on his heels. The box tucked safely, reverently, to his chest.
Then, just as abruptly, he pivots on his heel and throws the bottle into the wall just to hear it shatter. ]
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It feels different.
He gets the bottle out and takes a long swig, rocking on his heels. The box tucked safely, reverently, to his chest.
Then, just as abruptly, he pivots on his heel and throws the bottle into the wall just to hear it shatter. ]