Victims of Circumstance
Summary: Quarantined in the clinic, House and his team try to find out what's wrong with a comatose young woman.
A/N: Many thanks to Niff for her assistance with the medical aspects of the story, and to Marlou for her beta skills. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Just read the last one…

Chapter 4

Sitting in the relative sanity of the locked bathroom stall, House rested his head on his cane and let the Vicodin work its magic. He'd taken it too soon; Cameron was right about that, but he was going to get the most out of it before it wore off. Who knew how long it would take to get a refill?

He wasn't a baby, no matter what Cuddy said. So what if he was addicted? That was a fact he readily admitted, but it didn't stop him from doing his job. Or change the reality that he needed the painkillers.

And she had the gall to say that she 'understood'. Cuddy didn't understand a damn thing; she couldn't. Pain wasn't the first thing she noticed when she woke up, or the thing that kept her awake at night. Only someone else in chronic pain understood the non-stop torment.

At least Cameron spared him the New Age, feel-good garbage. 'Pain is a constant companion.' That was crap. No companion was ever constant. They took breaks, went to the bathroom, eventually feel asleep. If they were annoying enough, he'd drive them away. When that didn't work, he just ignored them.

Not pain.

The damaged muscles were connected to the frayed nerves; the frayed nerves were connected to the brain. Every movement, every twitch caused them to send a bolt of hot, searing reality directly to his conscious. The pain was there every moment of every day, pushing other thoughts out of the way to make its presence know. It was a hotwired memento of what he'd lost, and a bitter reminder that it would never, ever go away.

His head came up when someone else entered the bathroom, but he made no move to leave. Never the most social of people, the constant exposure to the water buffaloes in the waiting room tried his limited patience. His portable TV was toast, and his Game Boy mysteriously vanished. He was stuck here for the duration, and it was a waste of his time, and totally unnecessary.

House made a face; that wasn't true. They still didn't know what they were working with. The staging area they set up should prevent the spread of whatever infected Jen Hopper from the rest of the hospital, even assuming it was a contagious disease. But mistakes happened, and with infectious diseases, they were usually fatal.

Despite common assumptions, hospitals were the last place you wanted to be in an outbreak. They were full of sick people whose weakened systems provided perfect breeding grounds for the disease to thrive. In Africa, Ebola outbreaks wiped out medical facilities with ease, spread by the staff despite precautions. Even here, a relatively mild virus had turned the maternity ward into a death trap.

"House!"

Letting out an impatient sigh, he debated ignoring Chase. Was five minutes alone too much to ask? "I'm a little busy at the moment."

"No, you're not," Foreman said, standing on the toilet in the adjacent stall and resting his arms on the wall.

House looked up with an incredulous glare. "Do you mind? Go pay for your fetishes like everyone else."

"Your pants weren't down," Foreman answered smoothly.

"Did you think that maybe a doctor wouldn't want his pants dragging on a bathroom floor? Not exactly sanitary," he snarled, rolling his eyes when Chase appeared over the other stall wall. "If he jumped off a cliff, would you? How about if I pushed him off? Please say 'yes'."

"It's not the plague," Chase said. "But she has a new symptom."

"What?" House asked, leaving the stall to wash his hands.

"Parinaud's oculoglandular syndrome."

"That's consistent with TB," Foreman added.

"If she had TB," House said, snatching the report and heading back into the clinic.

"I thought you thought she had TB," Chase said, sharing a confused look with Foreman as they trailed behind.

"No, I thought it was more likely than the plague. At least I did. The chest X-ray was clear. None of the tests showed any tubercular involvement on the skeleton or organs. There are no lesions. If it's advanced enough to leave her in a coma, there should be some other symptoms. Breathing irregularities, tachycardia, something. She's got nada."

"But the Parinaud's …" Foreman began.

"Is just a symptom, not a conclusion. It's also a sign of sexually transmitted diseases."

"The syphilis test came back negative."

"Retest."

"We already did," Chase reminded him. "She doesn't have syphilis."

"Just don't tell Cameron," House added in a stage whisper, looking innocently when she hurried over to join them. "She'll gloat."

Instead of gloating, she only shook her head slightly. "I just got off the phone with Jen's parents…"

He turned to her impatiently. "What other symptoms did she display?"

"She was tired, had some weight loss, pain, but …"

"Which are all consistent with TB," Foreman said, ignoring Cameron's irate look at being constantly interrupted.

"And that's not the most important thing," she snapped, stepping into the middle of the group. They turned to her expectantly, and she swallowed quickly. "About three weeks before school started, there was a flood in a nearby town. Jen volunteered to help."

"Flood? Why didn't you say so before?"

"You told me to tell you the symptoms!"

House made a half-dismissive grunt, leaning against the reception desk. "Floodwaters wash out all kind of crap, literally and figuratively. The diseases live in the stagnant water, waiting for someone with a little scratch to go by. They didn't mention any GI symptoms?"

"None."

"That eliminates cholera, typhoid fever or shigellosis, and those are the three flood biggies."

"Maybe she didn't tell her parents about it," Chase suggested. "I don't care how close you are to your family, diarrhea is embarrassing."

"If they didn't notice something like cholera, they were in a coma, too" Cameron said thoughtfully. "Hepatitis A and E both are common after floods. They sometimes lead to coma, but there's no sign of underlying liver failure."

"TB shows up, too," Foreman said, giving House a pointed look.

"If the flood was three months ago, I'd agree, but not in three weeks. It doesn't advance that quickly."

"Rats."

The others turned to Chase with curious looks. "Floods wash out rats. What about something like leptospirosis?"

"There should have been other symptoms, but test for it," House said, looking away and scratching his beard.

"What?" Cameron asked.

He bobbed his head from side to side, scrunching up his face in thought. After a beat, he shrugged and answered. "There's always dengue."

She blinked, and then frowned. "African hemorrhagic fever? In Iowa?"

"The main vector is mosquito bites. Mosquitoes love floodwaters; they multiply like flying, biting bunny rabbits. And not the friendly type. The mean, disease-spreading kind."

"In Iowa?" she repeated.

"It shows up in the US every few years. People get infected in Africa, but don't break with it. They're carriers. When they get home, the local bugs spread it. Run the tests," he said to Chase and Foreman before turning to Cameron. "Did you see Wheezy yet?"

"No, the phone call came before I got to examine her."

"You spent all that time doing a history? You are playing hooky, aren't you?" he said in a mocking tone.

Cameron crossed her arms defensively. "There's nothing wrong with being thorough."

"There's thorough, and there's overly-thorough. Then there's you."

"The Hoppers didn't tell me about Jen volunteering for the flood. If I hadn't questioned them, we wouldn't know about it."

"Until she started oozing blood all over the place," he said, his joking demeanor fading quickly. "Has the kid shown any symptoms yet?"

"Adam? No, he's fine."

"If it is dengue – and no, it's probably not, but we have to rule it out – then it's not likely anyone else in the waiting room was infected. Which is good, 'cause nothing causes a panic like someone leaking blood from every orifice of their body. At least we know it's not the plague, and that's probably the most contagious of the diseases that fit her symptoms."

"If it's not the plague, will they lift the quarantine soon?"

"I'll go talk to Cuddy. See what it takes to get the red tape freaks to release the herd back into the wild," House said. "You take care of Vasnick."

Hobbling to the desk, he immediately noticed the nervous look the nurse directed his way. "Where's Cuddy?" he asked.

"She's seeing a patient, Dr. House."

His eyebrow shoot up as the woman kept anxiously darting her eyes to a patient folder tucked away from the others.

"I'm sorry, Dr. House. Dr. Cuddy specifically said you were not to see that," she said.

"Why not?"

"I, uh, I don't know."

"Right," he said, nodding his head. Turning around, he scanned the group of patients still waiting to be seen. His lips curled up slowly, and his mood improved slightly. Moving with a speed that startled the nurse, House shot out his arm and grabbed the folder. "Oh, Mr. Brinier! I'll see you now," he called out in a singsong voice.

"Hello, Adam, Ms. Richards," Chase said with a friendly tone as he entered the exam room. "Have you killed all the aliens yet?"

"Hey, doc," he said, turning off the game and fidgeting on the table. "Can I go home yet?"

"Not right away. We ruled out the most contagious of the possible diseases, so we can probably let you all go as soon as we clear it with the health officials." He pulled the stool over next to the table, showing Adam a web page printout. "Was this the bar your aunt gave you?"

"Yeah. But it's sugar-free," he added, giving his mother a pleading look. "That's the only reason I ate it."

"Well, your aunt wasn't exactly right. It has no processed sugars, but it does have some honey and molasses in it."

"She's an idiot," Ms. Richards sighed, cursing under her breath. "I swear, I've told her a hundred times that sugar is sugar as far as a diabetic is concerned. Adam has to be careful of everything, even how much fruit he eats. She thinks if it says 'healthy' on the package anyone can eat it."

"If you want, I can talk to her," Chase offered. "She's not the only person who doesn't understand that even natural sugars can cause troubles for diabetics."

"Oh, you can tell her. She'll be easy to spot. She'll be the one with my hands locked around her neck."

"Mom!"

"It's all right," Chase said calmly. "You'll be fine, Adam. Do you know how to read nutritional information labels?"

"Yeah. I'm not a little kid."

"No, you're not. But from now on, I want you to check the labels yourself before you eat a new food, okay? Let's not have any more scares."

"Sorry," he muttered, dropping his head embarrassedly.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Your aunt made a mistake, that's all. Here, go back to your game. I'll let you know when you can go home," Chase said.

"Thanks for all your help, doctor."

"I'm glad to help," he answered, turning to leave. It was true; after making no progress with the comatose young woman, it was a relief to be able to take care of a patient. After dropping off Adam's chart, he headed back to Jen's room, hoping to keep her alive until they found a treatment.

"We're going to die. Why don't you just admit it? You can't fool me," the surly teen – AKA Brandon Brinier – demanded. "And what are you looking for?"

House opened another drawer, scowling as he shifted through the contents. With a disgusted sigh, he gave up and limped over to the exam table. So much for his fun. Now he had to actually treat the brat.

"What's your problem?" he asked shortly.

"I'm dying."

"Yeah, so what? We all are. Started the second we were born. Get over it."

Brinier sneered at him. "I don't like you."

Tilting his head to the side, House brought his hand up to his heart. "And I cannot tell you how much that underwhelms me. Why are you here?"

"My back hurts," he said, pointing in between his shoulder blades. "There. It's been getting worse for days."

"Take off your shirt. Oh, wow!"

"What?" the teen asked, House's excited tone instantly setting off mental alarms. "What's wrong with me?"

"It's a nonsuppurating staphylococcal furuncular pustule."

"Really? Is it bad?"

"Well, that's what you'd call it," House said, moving back to the drawers. "I'd just call it a boil."

"Is that it?"

House stared at the teen's back with a bewildered expression. Most people liked hearing their conditions were minor. "It is a pretty impressive one, I'll give you that. No wonder it hurts so much. But I can take care of that for you."

"Great. Thanks."

"Oh, don't mention it," House said, pulling out a scalpel and smiling happily. "It'll be my pleasure."

After completing her exam, Cuddy reviewed her mental checklist. All her meetings for the day still had to be rescheduled, and the hospital's insurance company wanted to know if they faced a potential lawsuit. Then there was the press, now camped outside the front of the building and coming up with more outlandish scenarios by the minute.

She needed to call the board of directors in ten minutes to give them an update, but first she had to check on the progress of House's team. That meant dealing with the cranky doctor, and that was something she wanted to avoid for as long as possible.

The clinic staff was exhausted, but Cuddy didn't want to risk any more exposures; if the quarantine wasn't lifted soon, she'd have to arrange for some cots to be brought down, along with more diapers and formula for the infants in the waiting room. There was also food, water, medicines and House's damn Vicodin to arrange.

Wearily, she headed towards the phone when a painful yelp came from one of the exam rooms. She spun around, nearly colliding with Wilson.

"Don't worry. Cameron hid all the suture kits. House didn't sew the kid's mouth shut," he said, pausing in thought. "Unless he improvised something. Which is actually a possibility, now that I think about it."

"Why is he treating that boy? I said he wasn't to go near him."

"Do I need to answer that? Telling House not to do something is the best encouragement you can give him."

Cuddy let out a sigh. "So what was I supposed to do? Tell him to go treat the kid? This day can't get any worse."

"It can get better. Did you hear yet? It's not the plague," Wilson told her as they moved to the reception desk. "TB is still a possibility, but we've tested everyone. It'll be a few days before the reactions start."

"Good. I'll let the CDC know," she said, reading over the report. "I don't know if they'll accept the stain as proof. They may want to run their own tests."

"I already told the lab to e-mail them copies of the reports. And I need to see if they ever got my results back."

Cuddy leaned against the desk, ostensibly reviewing the lab report, but keeping an eye on the exam room door. When House emerged, she immediately stalked over to him.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing a patient. Is there something wrong with that? You yelled at me earlier for not seeing them. You're so hard to please. Oh. Is that why you're still single?" he asked with mock-sympathy.

"I didn't want you treating the troublemaker. What about your hypochondriac?"

"Hypochondriac? Always so judgmental."

Cuddy glared at him. "I'm using your judgment."

"Well, my judgment says she can't be a hypochondriac."

"Why not?"

"She crackled."

"I beg your pardon," she said.

"Inspiratory crackles. Those funny sounds you hear when someone breathes in. You really did buy your med school exams, didn't you? Does the board of directors know about this?"

"Okay, so she has some respiratory congestion this time. That doesn't explain her earlier visits."

"She can't be a hypochondriac," he said patiently. "She's agoraphobic."

Cuddy did a double take. "So you're saying that one psychological condition prevents her from having another? And you think I faked my way through med school."

"Oh, I'm totally open to the idea that someone with one screw loose has a shaky chassis," House said, looking Cuddy up and down, and making a 'like you' gesture. "But not in this case."

"And why not?"

"Because agoraphobics want to be left alone. They don't want attention. Hypochondriacs crave it. If she has both, then she's totally screwed. Which is possible," he admitted, once again indicating Cuddy.

"She presented with vague symptoms with no underlying cause."

"No, she had symptoms that cleared up by the time she worked up the nerve to come to the clinic. Hmm. Let's see. Symptoms that clear up in a day or two, but keep coming back. That could be the sign of a hypochondriac, if you ignore the fact that our patient is terrified to leave her house."

"I have a ton of work. Can we get to the point? What is it?" she demanded shortly.

"It's also a sign that someone's immune system is going haywire. Call me crazy, but I thought an immunologist was the right person to treat her."

"You have to be kidding me."

"Ask Cameron yourself," he said, letting out a whistle and waving her over. "Well? Cuddy thinks she's a hypochondriac. I say it's an immune disorder. Maybe essential mixed cryoglobulinemia."

"No," Cameron said, shaking her head. "Her feet aren't blue or cold."

"Damn," he muttered, ignoring Cuddy's smug look.

"You should have done the patient history," she continued with an amused smile.

"Not this again."

"She makes jewelry. That exposes her to metal shavings and solvents on occasion. I think it's Goodpasture's Syndrome. I ordered the anti-GBM titers, but I may need a renal biopsy to be certain."

"So it is an immune disorder. I told you so," he said to Cuddy, sticking out his tongue when she threw up her arms and walked away. "Is it still in the early stages?"

"I think so. I need to run some more tests to verify the extent of damage to the lungs and kidneys, but it appears to be minimal."

"Goodpasture's," House said proudly. "That's almost never caught before it becomes severe."

"Next time do your own histories," Cameron said, shaking her head in disgust as she walked away.

"But I was right!"

"You came back," Vasnick said when House limped into the room. "I thought you bailed on me."

"No, I sent in a specialist. And not a shrink. Figured you already had one of those."

"You believed me?"

"No, I believed your symptoms," he said bluntly. "People lie. Bodies don't."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Your blood work confirms that you have Goodpasture's Syndrome. It's an autoimmune disorder. That means your body's own defenses turned on itself. In your case, they targeted the lungs and kidneys. The disease causes destruction of cellular structures in those organs, and that makes them bleed. But it was minor. It cleared quickly. That's why nothing ever came back on your other tests."

"So, is this just an annoyance?" she asked doubtfully.

"No. Over time the bleeding will keep getting worse until it causes irreparable damage to the organs. But it's treatable."

"That's good news."

"You may not say that once you hear what it is."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a great bedside manner," Vasnick said in an annoyed tone.

"Would you rather have someone nice or someone honest?"

"Is there any reason you can't be both?"

"Yes. I'm not a nice person," House stated. "We'll give you immunosuppressive drugs to rein in your immune system. We'll run some tests to check on the bleeding in the lungs and kidneys. If it's bad, we'll give you steroids to counteract that damage."

"Are these drugs dangerous?" she asked worriedly.

"All medications can cause side effects. You'll have to be careful about infections while on the immunosuppressive drugs."

"So, what's the problem?"

"The main treatment is a plasma exchange. Basically, we're going to take out your old blood and replace it with new. The trouble is we can't do that all at once. We'll take out three or four liters a day. Every day. For two weeks. And I don't think that's something we can arrange with Social Services to have done in your house."

Vasnick paled, looking away quickly.

"Do you need another sedative?"

"No," she choked out. "Can you check to see if it can be done at home?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'll have Dr. Cameron ask around and see what they can do about sedating you during the procedure."

"Will, will this cure me?"

"It should. The current thinking is that the disease is caused by an overreaction to an irritant. Something like the metal shavings and solvents you work with. It's possible that it'll come back if you're not careful. I'd advise that you install a ventilation system or use a respirator. If any of the symptoms reappear, you need to let us know immediately, and we'll start treatments again."

"Right."

"I'm not kidding. I don't care if leaving your home terrifies you. If you don't do this, it will kill you. Personally, I think that's a bit worse than being afraid."

Vasnick turned to him, watching him carefully. "Do you know what it's like to be that scared? Do you have any idea what it's like to live your life in constant fear?"

House looked uncomfortable, but didn't answer as he stood up. When his hand went for his empty bottle of Vicodin, he left the room as fast as he was able.

"Nothing," Foreman said as he walked up beside of Chase and Cameron, holding up a stack of pages. He automatically checked Jen's stats as he approached, shaking his head incomprehensively. "All the new tests came back negative."

"The antibiotics still haven't had any effect. Her fever is still high, but otherwise she's in excellent health. Whatever she has, it still isn't causing any damage to the organs."

"Are we looking for the wrong thing? Is it possible she was stumbling from being ill and just hit her head? That would explain the coma," Cameron said, turning toward Foreman.

"There's no indication of any head injury. The disease is causing the coma."

"Did you show the test results to House?" Chase asked.

"He's seeing a patient. I left a message for him."

The trio continued to discuss possible diseases, making little progress before House joined them. He took the report, carefully reading all of the test results. When a cell phone started ringing, they looked around in confusion.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" House said to Cameron. Using his cane, he pointed to the bag of personal items under Jen's bed. "Do you expect the cripple to climb under there?"

"Hello," she said uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Jen can't come to the phone right now ... Trust me, she has a good reason ... This is Dr. Cameron at the Plainsboro Princeton Teaching Hospital … Yes, Jen is a patient here … I'm afraid I can't share patient information outside of the family. Can you tell me how she seemed at work? Did she mention feeling ill? … I see … Her parents are flying in now. Do you know anyone else who might have information? … Was she exposed to anything unusual at work? … No, thank you, Dr. Rambini."

"Is that a doctor as in a professor or a medical doctor?" Foreman asked. "Maybe she caught this from a patient."

"Not unless it wears a collar," Cameron said. "Dr. Rambini is a vet. Jen worked there during the semester, but today was her first scheduled day back. No one at the office has seen her since she got into town."

House's eyes suddenly snapped up, darting to the side before his head followed suit. "She works at a vet's office?"

"Yes," Cameron replied, confused by his curious expression.

"You said her schedule looked like she was a zoology major. Want to bet she's pre-vet?"

"It's possible," Chase said. "Is this relevant?"

"Well, duh. I'm not talking to you for the sparkling conversation. What exactly did Jen do when she volunteered at the flood?"

"Her parents didn't say," she answered.

House smirked proudly, all signs of tension draining from his posture. "So you're not as thorough as you think. Okay, take a guess. Pre-vet. Animal lover."

"You think she helped rescue stranded animals," Chase said. "So we're back to something from a barnyard animal. Like I suggested earlier."

House made a face, rolling his eyes. He opened his mouth, and started making loud, obnoxious sounds, halfway between gagging and hacking, his head bobbing forward in time with the noises.

The others stared at him in disbelief until Cameron recognized his hairball imitation. "Bartonella!"

"What?" Foreman exclaimed. "You think she has cat-scratch fever!"

"Of course!"

"But there's no scratches," Chase said. "Even after three weeks, there'd still be a lesion at the infection site."

"The name is a misnomer. You don't need a scratch to get cat-scratch fever. You don't even need the pussy," he said, ogling Cameron. "That's a whole other class of diseases."

She crossed her arms over her chest angrily, but it was Foreman who continued.

"Do you know how many people end up in a coma from cat-scratch fever?"

"Personally? Just Jen here, but we haven't been properly introduced."

"Less than ten percent of patients have a severe reaction to it. Only a fraction of those end up comatose."

"So?" House said with a shrug. "Somebody has to be the unlucky one. There are twenty thousand reported cases every year. That means a couple hundred get really sick from it. Jen is one of them."

"It would explain why the drugs aren't effective," Chase said slowly. "Most cases never respond to any medication. And it fits all of the symptoms."

"And the coma clears up on its own within four days," Cameron said. "She'll feel terrible for a while, but she'll completely recover."

"And you forgot the most important thing. We can get out of here," House added. "But Foreman doesn't believe me. He can run the tests himself. I'm going to go tell Cuddy the good news."

"Cat-scratch fever," Foreman muttered under his breath. "You know what's the worst part? He's probably right."

"And that's a problem?" Chase asked.

"He'll be rubbing it in our faces for a month."

"Nah," Cameron said with a relieved grin. "Just yours. We didn't disagree with him."

"Thanks, guys," he called as they walked out of the room. "Teamwork! Sticking together. Glad you understand the concept."

"Dr. House!"

He turned, swearing slightly. The clinic patients were gone or transferred to rooms upstairs, and he wanted to make his own escape. It didn't take Cameron long to overtake him, and she held out his Game Boy. "I found this."

"Uh, huh. You mean you remembered to get it back from the diabetic kid."

"What makes you say that?" she asked nervously.

"Oh, please. I know you. I bet he's already on your Christmas card list. You probably knitted him special diabetic socks in between patients. Of course you gave him something to play with."

"If you believe that, why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Then you'd deny it, and you get this look on your face when you lie. Like you're constipated. Very unpleasant," he said with a shudder. Fresh Vicodin ran through his system, he had an emergency stash in his backpack, the quarantine was over, and he didn't mind teasing his annoying – and annoyingly attractive – associate.

"We're all going out to dinner to celebrate our release. Why don't you join us?"

"It's not much of a release if I'm forced to spend more time with the lot of you."

She smirked at him as he followed her back to the desk where she resumed writing notes in a folder. "You wouldn't be forced if you chose to do it."

"I choose to go home. And in case you didn't notice, the quarantine is lifted. Go eat, leave the paperwork, go home."

"I will later. Jen's parents will arrive in a few hours. I want to be here when they get here so I can explain what's going on to them."

"They do have other doctors here on staff. Go home. Relax. Go break out your collection of latex toys." When she turned to him with a horrified expression, House looked disappointed. "I guess that's one fantasy ruined."

"Eww … What … you … Wait a minute. You have fantasies about me?" she asked, smiling at the discovery.

"You're female. You're hot. That's all that's necessary for a fantasy," he answered evasively.

"There's one problem with realities," Cameron said in a husky voice. "They never match the reality."

House watched as she walked away, convinced she swung her hips in a slightly exaggerate fashion. He didn't care about that; he just enjoyed the view, tilting his head to follow her long, slow progress across the room.

"Hey, get your jacket. The gang's going out to dinner," Wilson said. He stopped talking when he noticed where House's attention was focused, letting out a low appreciative sigh.

"You're married. And I'm heading home."

"How can you stand it? Always being miserable. Turning down an obviously interested woman. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're misanthropic for the fun of it, but you never have fun. You can be a real prick."

"Oh, it's hard, but I think I can handle it," House said with a bawdy grin. Once Cameron disappeared from view, he headed towards the exit.

"You can join us. A group dinner doesn't involve a life-time commitment," Wilson said in a kind voice. "You don't have to be alone."

"I'm never alone," House countered, his free hand sliding into his coat pocket. It wrapped around the pill bottle, and he winced as he walked over the rough concrete. "I'll never be alone."

The End