[ Time swims. Again, Carver thinks of a river. Of his thoughts catching against stones and fallen trees, getting tangled up in things. Slipping away from him in moments, by inches.
The orders stand, regardless. He tidies. He finds a rag and cleans up the dust. Rights what he can. Everything that ought to have a place within the shack is given one. Briefly, there's a line cut through the chaos. He doesn't really notice the time passing.
Things happen. He barely exists. And then there's a voice cutting through the river, and the noise of a dog.
Carver stills. He watches Harold. He watches the dog. He hasn't been checking the cameras. ]
no subject
The orders stand, regardless. He tidies. He finds a rag and cleans up the dust. Rights what he can. Everything that ought to have a place within the shack is given one. Briefly, there's a line cut through the chaos. He doesn't really notice the time passing.
Things happen. He barely exists. And then there's a voice cutting through the river, and the noise of a dog.
Carver stills. He watches Harold. He watches the dog. He hasn't been checking the cameras. ]
Yes, sir, [ he agrees softly. ]