Refuge

3

Dear Jack,

Greetings from the refuge!

Thanks for coming to see me, even if I couldn't come to the window. I fell out of bed this morning, and really hurt myself. Plus,my leg is still bothering me. Still, thanks for the stuff, and thank Esther for me too, that really helped. I'm really glad of the candles too, thank you. I think I used my last one writing to you last time. Well, that, and I think the other boys here are taking my stuff and hiding it. Earlier, I came back to find my bed messed up and all my pencils in a rats nest in the wall.

This place is spooky. I barely slept last night, because there was some....flying thing that kept landing on my face. Also, my bunk mate kept snoring, kinda link you, ha-ha. I wish you could come here and keep me company, like the old times, but I know it's not fair to make you do that. Hey, what are you sorry for? It's not your fault I'm here,in this mess. Don't blame yourself, Jack.

Remember how the penthouse's little tin roof used to creak, even when it wasn't even windy? I do, and I also remember that time I was really ill, but it was my first night out there with you, and, though you knew you would get ill too, you came and slept with me, so that I wouldn't get scared. That roof rattled like hell itself that night, didn't it? That memory? It's all that gets me through the long, cold nights here, amid a background creaking from a roof across the street that sounds familiar but... misleading somehow. The broken window right opposite the bed doesn't help either. You'd think I would be used to the chills, sleeping up in the penthouse for so long, but apparently not. The city noise sounds a lot closer and scarier without you too. In fact, as I write, the wind is howling around the chimneys like an animal, carrying the saddest noises on it's back to me.

Only a few streets over, there's some poor, starving little wastrel, desperate as another day draws to a close, with no food or shelter to show for it. If I could, I would use my last pennies to help that creature, even if it meant I didn't get to eat. It's howls sound like that time little Mole broke his arm. Remember that? He'd ratted the Delanceys out to Weisel, for taking money from the pape box, and they tackled him. Poor boy, he was only young. Remember he cried like he was being tortured afterwards? That's what this dog's sad howling sounds like.

I'm scared, Jack.

Crutchie