My head throbs. Everything hurts. God, why am I like this? Weak. Just weak. Sheriff, huh. Is that my name? Does it fit me? Will anyone care calling me that regardless? My head feels hot. Je veux dormir. Am I laying down? A cloth seems to be sliding on my head. It feels nice, cold. Not freezing or anything. A welcoming kind of cold. I hear a thousand questions from--shockingly--every direction. Tch, hypocrites. They only care about me now. "Let's go to the infirmary, okay?" A familiar voice calls. "I'm sorry... I'm... sorry... I-" "Don't be sorry." "Okay..." "Let's go, I'll hold your hand if you need." "...No thanks."
