The twenty-fourth hour came and went, and still Newt didn't sleep. Night had brought all the other boys down to their beds and blankets and soft patches of grass, but two remained awake—one in a fit of pain and memory; the other in empathetic agony.

Newt had sent the medics away hours ago, knowing there was nothing more they could do for the dark-skinned boy in his feverish sleep. He also didn't want them there when Alby Changed, didn't want them to see their usually tough and together leader screaming in pain.

He, Newt, was the only one who could see Alby like that (had seen him already, in fact, agonized and weak and begging—but for entirely different reasons). In an almost twisted way, he didn't want to share this moment with anyone else. So he had sent the medics away, locked the door, and taken hold of Alby's hand.

As the hours passed, Alby's condition got worse and worse. His skin bloated, festered, popped—and still Newt held Alby's hand tight in his. Gashes ripped across the older boy's limbs, and his body shook violently. When he was convulsing too much for Newt to keep hold of him, Newt instead brushed Alby's damp hair out of his eyes. Sometimes, he just sat and watched.

x-x

Locked inside the torture of his own mind, Alby had no idea what was going on around him. He sailed in and out of semi-consciousness as memories from his past kept dragging him back into the dark. In those few days, he had no sense of self—only images of fire and death and disease.

But sometimes, when the grip of the dream-memories loosened, he imagined that he saw somebody's face, gazing at him ceaselessly. Fair skin, honey-colored eyes, and golden hair framing the face like a halo. An angel?

For a split second, his mind cleared enough to realize that no, it wasn't an angel.

It was Newt.

And the fact comforted him, so much so that when he fell back into the Changing's arms, the pain was gone and there was only the blissful numbness of sleep.

x-x

Right as he was about to leave (he didn't want to, he couldn't, really—but he had to), Newt saw Alby's eyes flicker open. Glassy at first, unseeing; but then the veil lifted, brown eyes locked with amber, and Newt knew his friend (friend, what an insufficient word) was going to be okay. Not now, not tomorrow, but in a few days—Alby would come back to him.

Newt would be waiting with open arms when he did.