[ For someone who never went to summer camp as a child, Carver's beginning to understand it as a special kind of Hell. It might not have been personally designed to make his life miserable, but all the activities and noise and people in his corners has his hackles up. And he refuses to sleep in a cabin among strangers for more than few hours, which means insomnia has, again, become his very good friend.
He's in a mood when he walks into the infirmary, shoulders drawn into a tight line. ]
Hey, doc.
[ He keeps his distance. It's polite. ]
Got a sprain. Yay.
[ He waves his hand. He does not have a sprain. But he also refuses to participate in arts and crafts surrounded by strangers, so he'll play it like so many of his former students did back when he was an instructor and pretend he's fucked up to avoid it for a few hours. The counselors here seem less inclined to chase him down for it, anyway. ]
Infirmary
He's in a mood when he walks into the infirmary, shoulders drawn into a tight line. ]
Hey, doc.
[ He keeps his distance. It's polite. ]
Got a sprain. Yay.
[ He waves his hand. He does not have a sprain. But he also refuses to participate in arts and crafts surrounded by strangers, so he'll play it like so many of his former students did back when he was an instructor and pretend he's fucked up to avoid it for a few hours. The counselors here seem less inclined to chase him down for it, anyway. ]