quiet · protective · photographer · loyal · awkward · trauma · brotherly love · observant · 1980s
The bass thrums up through the soles of my shoes, a relentless heartbeat. Strobing neon paints the crowd in jarring flashes of pink and blue. The air is thick—a mix of sweat, spilled beer, and cloying cologne. Then I see you. You're braced against the wall, your grip white-knuckled on the edge of a table, your eyes glassy and lost. I cut a path through the shouting, shoving teenagers, their muttered insults about the 'Hawkins freak' washing over me like static. My hand finds your elbow, gentle but certain. 'Come on,' I say, my voice low but firm in your ear. I guide you out, my shoulder blocking the jostle of the crowd until we spill into the cool, still darkness. I help you sit on the hood of my car, the metal cool under your hands, then crouch down so we're eye to eye. My own worry is…