Anon E. Moos, Day 1

>You are Anon E. Moos, Social Security number 721-07-1426, shift supervisor at Joe's Donuts.
>And you are currently chugging a shaker cup of "vanilla-flavored" casein, which tastes like vanilla in the same way jelly beans taste like fruit.
>As in, barely.
>Slamming the now-empty shaker cup down on the kitchen counter and letting out a quiet burp, you glance at the jet-black microwave nestled snugly inside the open-shelved cupboard, right beside your refrigerator.
>The digital clock reads 23:30 in pale blue digital numbers and you feel a tiny hint of satisfaction from being done on time again.
>You still have 30 minutes before you go to bed, and apart from brushing your teeth and showering, you don't really have anything to do.
>On the other hand, a pre-bedtime cigarette does sound pretty good right about now.
>You are not a particularly heavy smoker, sticking to roughly ten sticks a day, give or take a couple depending on how stressful work is.
>You'd even consider yourself pretty disciplined; you barely eat junk food, follow a strict training and dietary regimen and drink maybe once a week, twice if there are any big events going on.
>But with how the weather's been lately, most people just stay indoors, especially after nightfall.
>Summer nights in Canterlot have never been warm, and the almost constant nighttime rainfall give people even less incentive to hit the town.
>Still, you probably wouldn't go out even if the weather was nicer.
>Living in the ass-end of Emerald Hills, about as far as you can get from downtown Canterlot while still technically being inside the city kind of does that to you.
>You peer outside through the glass of your kitchen window into the dimly lit yard and the rain-soaked street beyond, the weather now far beyond light drizzle territory.
>With a sigh you turn towards the sink, about to rinse out your shaker cup.
>You still remember how it smelled after you left one unwashed for three days.
>Shuddering briefly at the memory, you turn on the faucet...

>The cold, damp air embraces you as you step outside, hand-rolled cigarette in mouth.
>The air smells like upturned earth, fresh rain and newly-laid asphalt, with a hint of pine coming from the forest to the west.
>Living this far away from the various factories and plants does have it's benefits.
>The water is better, the air smells fresh and natural, and there is no noise except the occasional sedan driving by or wild animal knocking over a trash can.
>You light your cigarette and take a pull, the wind tearing the bluish plume of smoke to shreds the moment it exits your lungs.
>The rain seems to get heavier and heavier by the second, the occasional droplet hitting you despite standing squarely under the overhang.

>And as if on cue, the landscape is brightly lit for a split second, the cold blue light giving your yard, the street and the forest beyond an otherworldly quality .
>And a mere second later, there is an ominous rumbling of thunder, so loud you can feel it vibrating through your body, almost loud enough to conceal the sound of a trash can falling over.
>The rumbling is over as suddenly as it began, but the metallic sound continues, not unlike a metal lid bouncing off of asphalt and rolling away.
>You cringe slightly at the sharpness of the noise.
>That's sure to wake up the neighbors...
>You peer into the darkness, and see a faint glint of metal out in the street through the opening in your fence.
>Shit.
>It's the lid from your trash can, probably toppled by a raccoon looking for a midnight snack.
>You ash your cigarette and start walking towards the street.
>You really don't want to leave any obstacles out in the middle of the road.
>The morning commute is already bad enough as it is.
>Icy droplets pelt your head and neck, and you pull your hood up with a grunt, briefly wondering how anything could move outdoors in this kind of downpour.

>You are about halfway to the street when lightning flashes again, the pale light showing the street, your fence and the forest beyond clearly.
>But the lid is gone...
>You freeze up.
>Unbidden, memories of your uncle talking about hunting raccoons flash through your mind.
>"...had a lot of luck with coons in th' rain, as long as it ain't a downpour. Ain't nothing that moves in a downpour, well, except people..."
>Again perfectly on cue, thunder rumbles angrily in the distance, your heart skipping a beat.
>Stay calm, Anon.
>It might just be the wind.
>Or it could be someone.
>Some crackhead going through your garbage for valuables or food, crouching behind the fence with a gun in his hand, happy to have found a better source of income than stealing copper.
>Fuck, how long would it take for the police to even get here? 30 minutes?
>In that time, whoever is out there would already have stolen everything you have and driven away with your car, leaving you lying in a puddle of blood in your own yard.
>Fuck's sake, Anon, stay rational!

"Hello? Anybody out there?"
>Speaking feels a lot harder than it should, but you do your best to sound confident, despite your heart pounding like it's going to burst.
"If you're out there, show yourself now."
>The "silence"—the patter of raindrops and the howling of the wind making you feel even more on edge—is anything but encouraging, and you swallow briefly, your mouth all too dry.
"I have a gun."
>That's the most bold-faced lie you've ever told, although you really wish it was true right now.
>You turn on the flashlight from your phone and slowly walk towards the street, the beam of light shakily jumping from street to fence to forest and back again.
>After seconds that you'd swear were minutes, you finally creep out into the street, shining the light both ways just to make sure nobody'll pounce on you.
>The trash can is lying on the ground, its lid cleanly set in front of it, but the rest of the street is empty, as if nothing ever happened.
>You're perfectly happy with that, but you'll still probably sleep with one eye open.
>After a quick double-check to make sure nothing is sneaking up on you, you upright the trash can with a grunt, toss a bag that fell out back inside, and reach down to grab the lid.
>And promptly recoil when you see the handle coated with red, glistening fluid, the liquid reflecting light from your flashlight.
>Blood.
>Somebody–whoever was here–is hurt.
>And judging by the amount of blood, badly so.

>Not two minutes later, you're barreling through the door again, now dressed a bit warmer, an actual flashlight, a water bottle and a first aid kit in tow.
>You jog down the driveway and stop at the trash can again, head swiveling back and forth for any sight of whoever was here
>In the light of the heavy-duty flashlight, you can clearly make out round imprints beside your trash can, as if someone had been on their knees or sitting down here.
>In addition to the round imprints, there are more of what you assume to be footprints in the wet grass leading away from your house.
>Shining the beam of light at your fence, you make out a few smudges of blood on the leaves and sparse flowers of the rose hedge.
>Leaning in, you notice a small scrap of what looks like gray fabric caught on the thorns, the material rough and dirty.
>And a bit above that, a few short strands of something that looks like it was ripped from a nylon rope
>As you pinch one of the dark pink strands and bring it closer to your eye, you notice that it's far too soft to be synthetic, instead reminding you of hair, albeit oddly colored.
>Well, not that oddly colored.
>It seems like pretty much everyone under the age of 20 in Canterlot has dyed their hair with some odd combination of colors.
>Pink hair might actually be on the normal side.

>After quickly examining the area around your driveway, rain constantly bouncing off your coat, you walk back to the imprints and start following the footprints leading away from–or towards–your house.
>You're becoming more and more aware that this might not have been the best idea you've had.
>And you don't really even know if the tracks you're following are the right ones.
>Or if there even are any tracks at all.
>What you do know is that you should have called 9-1-1 several minutes ago.
>You sigh and take out your phone, the dark, imposing forest to your left and a small playground to your right, swingsets creaking ominously in the wind.
>You finish tapping in the numbers and bring your thumb to the "call" button, letting your eyes scan the treeline.
>And suddenly, you can't see anything but white.
>In a split second, you feel–rather than hear–an earth-shaking "BOOM", louder than any sound you've ever heard.
>You think you scream something along the lines of "WHAT THE FUCK?"
>You're not quite sure.

>At some point, your vision returns to an usable level and the ringing in your ears subsides a bit.
>There's still some kind of occasional high-pitched noise in your left ear, and you knead your ear with your palm in the hopes that it'd stop the noise.
>You're quite surprised that it does.
>Doubly so when the noise returns after you stop kneading.
>Come to think of it, that doesn't really sound like ringing.
>You look back at the forest, feel the faint smell of burned wood and finally put one and two together.
>You dash off towards the forest as quickly as you can, your phone now back in your pocket and your flashlight swinging back and forth, all thoughts of calling 9-1-1 completely forgotten.
>The smell of burning wood keeps getting stronger the further inside the forest you go.
>The trees are scrawny and bony, almost skeletal, mostly evergreens with some birch and maple here and there, all tightly clustered as if huddling together for warmth.
>Your run has slowed down to a brisk walk, the whipping branches and detritus on the forest floor slowing you down.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
>You try to make your voice as loud as possible, but the trees just seem to bounce it back at you, almost like an echo chamber, and the noise–now definitely sounding like panicked screaming–seems to come from everywhere at once.
>So, you pick the direction where the burning smell seems to come from and walk towards it, occasionally stumbling on roots or underbrush, all the while calling out.
"Hellooo?"
>Still nothing.
>You frown, stop in your tracks and take a deep breath, filling your chest with air.
"HELLO? ANYONE THERE?"
>And just like that, the screaming stops.
>This is all sorts of weird.
>The forest almost seems quieter than before, like a creature that has awoken to your presence and is now observing you.
>You've never been one to believe in ghost stories, but you have to admit that the forest makes you more nervous than it should.
>You keep walking in the eerie silence, flashlight jumping from tree to tree.
>You should probably call out again, but you really don't want to.
>Talking in anything more than a whisper would feel wrong, out of place.
>And you definitely feel scrutinized already.
>So you keep walking.
>Quietly.

>After—what you assume to be—a few minutes, you think you hear something else than your own footsteps.
>You're too far away to be sure, but it almost sounds like somebody trying to stay as quiet as possible while still being incredibly scared.
>Scared, or hurt.
>Sort of like the sound a hiding white girl makes in most slasher movies, a sort of pained whimper with the occasional panicked sob...
>You increase your pace, fallen branches and underbrush protesting loudly at your intrusion, but at this point you don't really care.
>Whoever is out there needs help, and needs it badly.
>Your clammy, rain soaked hands grip the flashlight firmly as you set your mouth in a tight line, your steps now definitely louder than they need to be, just to prove to yourself that you're supposed to be here.
>And suddenly, you see a flash of pink in the beam of your flashlight, not 20 yards away.
>All thoughts of fear forgotten, you blindly rush toward it, affording yourself a mental pat on the back.
>Good job, Anon.

>Coming closer, you slow down to a jog and then a brisk walk, scanning the person's body with your flashlight.
>They're lying down, leg clearly stuck underneath a fallen tree, the bulk of the tree still attached to the blackened base, probably struck by lightning.
>That's one unlucky motherfucker right there.
>The person, too androgynous for you to be sure if they're a boy or girl, is squirming underneath the tree, seemingly trying to break free from their entrapment.
"Hey, calm down. I'm here to help."
>You try to sound as reassuring as possible and even give them a small smile, before remembering that they probably can't see anything except the flashlight.
>You're close enough to touch them at this point, and inspect the person a little further.
>They're dressed in a baggy, faded jumpsuit, most likely gray or white underneath all the grime and mud.
>You can't help wondering to yourself if this is an escaped prisoner or something similar.
>...
>Okay, maybe not a prisoner.
>Even underneath the tattered jumpsuit, their lack of muscle tone is obvious, and they look maybe sixteen, at most, their chest heaving with shaky, panicked breaths.
>What little skin is visible is marred with cuts, scratches and bruises, some of them fresh, likely from running through the forest.
>Their hair is choppy and short, a dark pink, clearly matted and filthy.
>And they smell like someone who hasn't washed themselves in quite some time.
>Dull blue eyes dart everywhere but towards you, like those of a cornered animal, pupils almost completely filling the iris, their mouth set in a thin line.
>Long story short, they look like they've been through some shit.

"Alright, let's get this off of you. Are you hurt?"
>They stay silent, whether out of fear or due to the stupidity of your question you don't know.
>You put your flashlight on the forest floor, walk to the other side of the tree, and prepare to lift.
"Okay, when I lift this off you, try to crawl out. I don't know how long I can hold it. Got it?"
>You don't even get a nod.
>Rude.
>You grab the trunk roughly shoulder-width apart and clench your core.
"You ready?"
>After a few seconds of silence, you shrug mentally, squeeze your grip, and drive your heels into the mossy ground.
>Accompanied by a loud grunt, the tree slowly rises to hip height, and you find yourself wondering why you didn't just grab it from further away.
>And the moment the pink-haired one's legs are free, they scramble away, breaths coming in sharp hisses.
¨>Once you see that they are clear of the trunk, you slowly set it back down again while slowly inhaling.
>Perfect form.

>You climb over the tree, intent on getting your flashlight back, but the moment you move towards them, they let out a panicked yelp and scramble to their feet, clearly intent on running away.
>And as soon as they put any weight on their left leg, they collapse with a heavy thud and a pained scream.
>Shit.
2Hey! Are you okay?2
>You grab your flashlight and run to the bruised figure, procuring a small first aid kit out of your coat pocket.
>It's not very impressive, more like what you'd fix injuries from fishing hooks with, but it's the best you could muster up at such a short notice.
>And you never expected to find, well... this.
>Now that their legs are out from under the tree, you can see that their feet have easily suffered the most.
>Unsurprisingly, running around for—what could very well be—days without shoes might do that to you.
>Where their arms and hands have cuts and scratches, painful but still manageable, their feet are bleeding badly and covered in wounds, thorns–from your rose bush–sticking out at varying angles.
>It's a miracle they got this far, and you have a feeling that an infection is just around the corner, if not already here.
"You took a pretty nasty fall there. Are you alright?"
>They give you a pained whimper in response, which speaks for itself.
"Listen, I'm not going to hurt you, alright?"
>You set the flashlight down on the ground pointing at you, and fish out the bottle of water in your coat.
"I'm here to help. See? I brought you some water. Here."
>You hold out the water bottle towards them, and they eye it with a suspicious look in their eyes.
>Then, slowly, like a hedgehog to a plate of food, they reach out for it, arm shaking.

>You've never seen anyone open a water bottle that quickly.
>They've managed to sit up, the water bottle quickly emptying into their mouth, wounded leg extended.
>Now, you have a chance to look at them a bit more closely.
>And you're pretty sure it's a boy.
>A malnourished, stunted, androgynous boy, but still a boy.
>There were hundreds of different factors you could've taken into consideration, but you decided to trust the faded embroidery on the front of their jumpsuit that said "Duane Pie – 141".
>Score for Team Anon.
>He–Duane, you remind yourself–closes the cap on the half-empty water bottle and turns to look at you, much calmer than before, but still with a slight air of anxiety.
>"T-thanks."
>His voice is scratchy but still fairly light, and you doubt he's even hit puberty properly yet.
>Poor guy.
"No problem."
>You smile at him as reassuringly as you can, trying to make him feel a bit more comfortable around you.
>...
>The silence is awkward, and you really think you should get going as quickly as possible.
>You don't want to stay here longer than you have to, and the boy desperately needs medical attention.
>You take a deep breath and clasp your hands.
"So, Duane. That's your name, right?"
>He nods mutely at your question, eyes never meeting yours.
"Listen. I'm no medical professional, but even I can see you're badly hurt. Really badly. We need to get you out of this place, alright?"
>He nods again, this time with a bit more trepidation.
"My house isn't far from here. I have some medical stuff there, and I can drive you to the hospital if you need it."
>He shudders, and thinks about it for several seconds, finally nodding and drawing a shaky breath.
>"O-okay. But o-on one condition."
"Lay it on me."
>"No hospital. I'm n-not going b-back."
>His response—although unexpected—barely phases you, and you decide to just roll with it, what with leaving the forest being higher on your priority list than debating a wounded, shocked teenager about getting actual medical care.
"Well, as long as it's nothing life-threatening, I can agree with that."
>You sit up, put the water bottle back into your coat along with the unused first aid kit, and give yourself a quick pat-down just to make sure you haven't lost anything.
"So, Duane, how are your legs? Do you think you can walk?"
>He looks down and shakes his head.
>"W-well, you saw how it w-went, right?"
>You chuckle quietly, and you swear you see a smile tug at his mouth, if only for a second or two.
>And just like that, he's back to being downcast.
>...
"So, uh, you up for being carried?"
>"S-sure."

>Duane weighs even less than you expected.
>And you didn't expect much.
>You make a mental note to give him a proper meal after you've checked out his wounds and fixed up as much as you can.
>...
>As much as you can.
>Sure.
>And what about the things you can't take care of?
>He's in really bad shape...
>...
>You shake your head, trying to ignore the possible outcomes of the situation.
>He's cradled in your arms, almost like a little child.
>Well, okay, exactly like a little child.
>It's pretty relaxing, actually, and you think you could almost get used to this.
>Suddenly he starts squirming, his eyes wide.
"Hey, what are you-"
>"Mister Turnip! We forgot Mister Turnip!"
"Who's Mister Turni-"
>"We forgot him! We need to go back! Turn around!"
>Okay, this is seriously beyond your understanding.
>You sigh deeply and turn around.
"Alright, alright, we're going. Jesus."
>He curls up a bit and quivers, clearly distressed by your irritation.
>And you have to admit, you feel like a bit of a scumbag.
>Fortunately, you didn't manage to get too far, and there hasn't been thunder in almost twenty minutes.
>The downpour still hasn't let up, but the canopy of the forest has kept most of the rain away, which you're more than happy about.

>You arrive at the fallen tree where you first met Duane, and he points at the ground, your flashlight skating across the underbrush.
>Pointing it roughly where Duane was lying, your flashlight illuminates a small, beat-up turnip lying forlorn amidst the evergreens.
>You put your flashlight between your teeth and crouch down, and Duane instantly grabs the tiny wet vegetable, holding it close to his chest.
>"T-thanks..."
>You smile at him, despite being a bit weirded out by the turnip, and give him a gentle squeeze.
"No problem, kid. Now let's get out of this fuc- forest already."
>He nods mutely, and you start the journey towards your home, with Duane one turnip richer and you a lot more confused.

>The door to your home creaks open and you shuffle inside, your coat partially closed over Duane to protect him from the rain, keeping him snug against your chest.
>Rainwater drips on the hardwood floor, and you suddenly realize just how soaked you are.
>You gently put Duane down, letting him lean against the wall, take off your shoes and hang up your coat, cringing when you feel your wet socks make contact with the floor.
"So... Welcome to my home, I guess. You want anything to eat before I check up on you or are you fine with waiting?"
>You scratch your neck absentmindedly, not sure why you feel so awkward bringing him here.
>It's not like your place is particularly dirty, or particularly ugly, for that matter.
>Still, it feels kind of weird, bringing a stranger to your home.
>And he probably feels weird too.
>Like, he doesn't even know your name or who you-
>He doesn't know your name.
>Shit.
"Uh, hey, Duane?"
>"Hmm?"
"I'm Anon. Anon E. Moos. Don't ask about the name. It's Dutch."
>You hold your hand out to him, and he takes it after a moment of trepidation, giving you an awkward handshake.
>You can't help notícing how frail his hand feels, how small it is compared to yours.
>Still, you aren't one to judge, your hands probably looked like this when you were younger too, except nowhere near as slender or pale.
>The handshake is one of those really awkward ones where one of you doesn't end it on time, and so both are forced to shake hands for way too long.
>About five full seconds later, it finally ends.
"Uhh, so? Would you like anything?"
>"N-no, I'm f-fi-"
>An abrupt coughing fit cuts his sentence short, heavy, wet coughs shaking his tiny frame.
>You give him a concerned look and he takes a few deep, raspy breaths that are almost painful to hear.
>The poor boy can't seem to catch a break, it seems.

>You rummage through the medical cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, tossing everything you think you'll need into the plastic bag in your hand.
>With how cut up Duane is, you've decided to just take every single package of adhesive bandages you have with you, along with some iodine and alcohol and some normal bandages.
>You probably won't be able to do much about the bruises, and if his leg is busted, you'll pretty much have to convince him to come to the hospital.
>Still, some Ice-Power and a couple of ice packs from the freezer should help.
>And finally, some painkillers—both prescription and non-prescription—a bottle of cough syrup, and some cotton balls to top everything off.
>Through the half-open door, you hear Duane having a whispered conversation with somebody you assume to be Mister Turnip.
>You close the mirrored door of the cabinet and shake your head, frowning.
>Poor boy...

>As you come into the living room, Duane instantly goes quiet and puts the turnip into his pocket with a guilty look on his face.
>You just raise your eyebrow, and after a bit of awkward silence, you clear your throat.
"Yeah, uh, I got some band-aids, some disinfectant, stuff like that. Are you okay with me doing this or do you wanna do it yourself?"
>Duane shrugs, clearly more nervous than he wants to let on.
>"I-I uh... I d-don't really care e-either way."
"...right."
>You didn't really mean to sound as skeptical as you did.
>"I m-mean it! I'm f-fine with you d-doing it."
"Well, if you say so..."
>After a few seconds of silence, your tired brain realizes another—quite important—thing.
>You should probably let him wash his feet, if nothing else.
"Be right back."

>You soon emerge from the bathroom again, a wide plastic bucket filled with water in your hands and a crutch you grabbed on a whim balanced on top of it.
>You usually keep crutches around for when the day after leg day gets a bit too heavy, but you haven't had to use one in a while.
>Careful not to spill any, you set the bucket down in front of the couch and hold the crutch out to Duane.
>"W-what are these for?"
"That-"
>You point towards the bucket.
"-is for washing your feet. This-"
>You shake the crutch.
"-is for hitting me if I do anything wrong. Oh, and walking too, I guess.."
>Duane grins and takes the crutch from you.
>"T-thanks."
"Don't mention it."
>"Okay, I w-won't."
You smile, and Duane starts moving to a sitting position, using the crutch to push his upper body off the floor.
>Soon enough, he's sitting upright, and slowly starts lowering his feet into the bath.
>It's clearly painful for him to bend his left leg, but he tries not to let it show.
>His teeth are gritted, and the moment his feet make contact with the water he lets out a pained groan.
>Mere seconds later, the water in the bucket has turned an almost opaque, filthy brown.
>You'll have to get him to a shower as soon as possible, partially because nobody deserves to be that dirty, partially to save your upholstery.
"You okay?"
>"Y-yeah. I'm f-fine."
"Alright. Just tell me if you need anything."
>He bends forward and starts washing his feet carefully, occasionally hissing in pain or grimacing.
>You don't blame him for that, those cuts on his feet looked pretty bad.
"So uh."
>"Y-yeah?"
>This time he actually looks up at you, his eyes now looking way more lively than before.
"I'll go do some dishes... or something. Be right back."
>"O-okay."
>With that, you leave him to his business and walk to the kitchen, desperately looking for something to do.

>It's not like there is a lot to do in the kitchen, but you sweep a couple crumbs off of the counter and wash the shaker from before, just to pass the time.
>The microwave glares at you accusingly, telling you that you should have gone to bed a long time ago.
>It's not like a couple hours here or there will make that much of a difference, but you hate deviating from routines.
>You follow your routines for a reason; because they work.
>Besides, you're definitely feeling tired, and a bit on edge.
>Duane's whispering really isn't helping.
>Yeah, pretty much everyone has had an imaginary friend at some point, but having discussions with a turnip at his age?
>That's all kinds of fucked up, and—you have to admit—a bit creepy.
>And as much as you hate to admit it, you overthink a lot.
>Mechanically cleaning the counter-tops with a spray bottle and a rag, you start wondering just who you brought to your home.
>He's never even mentioned his parents during the whole time.
>Either he hasn't seen them in a long time, doesn't care about them, or is running away from them.
>But that doesn't explain the jumpsuit.
>The name on it looks machine-stitched, like it was made to certain regulations and not just by someone with a sewing machine and a little too much time on their hands.
>But he still doesn't look like a prisoner, not even like anyone from juvie.
>From what little contact you've had with prisoners, you can safely say that he definitely doesn't look like one.
>Lack of muscle mass and anxious disposition aside, the one thing that really strikes you is his body language and how his eyes look.
>Ex-prisoners almost always look like they're ready to fight at a moment's notice, with cold, unblinking stares, not showing any weakness, the brutality of incarceration forcing them to constantly act tough.
>But this boy practically embodies weakness; he's tiny, frightened, skittish, with eyes like those of a cornered rabbit.
>Wait, what has that he said about hospitals, right after you gave him the bottle of water?

>"No hospital. I'm n-not going b-back."
>Not going back...
>And suddenly it all hits you, like an 18-wheeler barreling through your brain.
>You freeze up, feeling like the biggest, most gullible idiot on Earth.
>It all makes sense.
>How he acts, the turnip, the jumpsuit, digging through your trash can, running through the forest, everything.
>You tiptoe to the holdall in your hallway, Duane's whispering now a lot more sinister than before.
>Pulling one of its drawers open, you cringe as the wooden cabinet squeaks, keeping your ears peeled for any sign of him noticing.
>You withdraw a dusty old phone catalog and tiptoe back into the kitchen, heart beating hard.
>It's not like he could hurt you that badly, even if he tried.
>You're a full head taller, and probably have closer to a hundred pounds of mass on him, so you're not too worried about what he'd do right now, even if he could walk of his own accord.
>But no amount of brute strength will help you if he decides to slit your throat when you're sleeping...
>Hunched over the table in the kitchen, you flip through pages until you finally find the Canterlot County maps.
>Grabbing a pencil, you circle your home on the map, nothing more than a tiny black square among other tiny black squares.
>And then, you start tracing the road leading to the east through the Everfree Forest, until you finally come across something that makes you feel even dumber than before.
>Everfree Psychiatric Hospital.
>You groan in exasperation.
>Just to make sure, you measure the distance as well as you can with your fingers.
>According to the map–and your archaic measuring tools–it's roughly 50 miles away.
>A hell of a long way to walk in difficult terrain and without shoes, but still manageable in two, maybe three days.
>...
>Shit.
>So, here you are, harboring an escaped mental patient that could be plotting to kill you right now.
>This is all kinds of stupid, illegal, and dangerous.
>You groan again, this time a bit louder.
"Fffuuuck."

>You walk back into the living room and Duane pockets the turnip, the same guilty look crossing his face again.
>You sit down on one of the arm chairs around the coffee table, the leather groaning from your weight.
"So, uh, Duane, what's Mister Turnip telling you?"
>You give your best attempt at a reassuring smile (which comes off more like a nervous grin) and rub your hands together.
>"U-uh, I, well..."
>Duane bites his lip and looks down into the murky water enveloping his feet.
>"I'm r-really sorry, b-but..."
"Yeah?"
>"M-mister Turnip d-doesn't really l-like you. S-sorry."
>To be honest, the turnip's feelings are more than returned.
>You've really, really started to dislike that fucking thing.
>"I, uh, I've b-been trying t-to tell him that you're n-nice, and that y-you don't want t-to do anything bad t-to us, but... h-he doesn't believe me."
>Duane cringes slightly, and you struggle to keep your expression neutral.
>"I'm s-sorry. You're n-not mad, are you?"
"What? No. Not at all. Why would I be?"
>"O-okay. I just, well..."
>Duane fidgets, the turnip now in his hands, the boy moving the vegetable from one hand to the other.
>"W-well, it's just that, m-most people d-don't like it when I t-talk to Mister Turnip. T-they always get m-mad, and t-tell me that I should s-stop doing it..."
>Duane tries to smile at you, but doesn't really succeed.
>...
>The silence lays heavy on you two, Duane fiddling with the turnip, you wondering just how to bring up the topic of the mental hospital, how to tell him that you can't keep a fugitive here for very long.
>...
>Fuck it, just go straight to the point.
>No beating around the bush now, Anon.
"So, I-"
>"I, um-"
>Duane looks taken aback, and you have a feeling that this will only get harder.
>"S-sorry. Um, I s-should let you f-finish."

"No, you go on ahead. What kind of host would I be if I didn't let you go first?"
>You give Duane a friendly smile despite the stab of guilt in your heart.
>What kind of host would you be if you just cut him off to say whatever you felt?
>Or, God forbid, threw him back out on his ass or even sent him back to where he came from, rendering all his struggles moot?
>You'd have to be a pretty shitty host to do that.
>Duane doesn't notice your discomfort, his eyes now fixed on the turnip he is manhandling while nervously chewing his lower lip, and something almost like a rosy blush shining out from under the caked-on grime.
>W-well, I just..."
>He sighs, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, the slightly raspy noise the only sound in the living room.
>And looks straight at you, his blue eyes now more piercing, more lively than ever before, holding your gaze for a good second before looking away, now definitely blushing.
>"I, um, I just wanted to say, w-well, t-thank you. F-for everything. You've b-been super nice to m-me, a-and I d-don't really get that a l-lot, s-so... yeah. T-thank you."
>Duane looks at you hopefully, expectantly, nervously, as if your reply was the most important thing in the world right now, and your stomach churns nauseatingly.
>Good Lord, you feel like a scumbag.
"Y-yeah, hey, no problem. It's the least I could do, right?"
>No, the least you could do is not betray his trust.
>...
>Fuck it, you'll bring it up tomorrow.
>Looking at him, how nervous he is, how vulnerable he looks, bony shoulders slumping underneath a baggy jumpsuit, all your apprehension is gone.
>This guy doesn't seem like he would even hurt a fly, let alone hurt you.
>And you don't think you could live with yourself if you sent him back.
>You don't know much about the mental hospital, or psych wards in general, but it seems like he maybe even has his reasons for escaping.
>You'll ask him about it later...

>As for now, getting this guy cleaned up and fixed up is priority number one.
>Now that you think about it, you should probably get him a shower.
>You're no doctor, but you're pretty sure that disinfectant doesn't really help against quarter-inch layers of caked-on mud.
>Duane's eyes are wandering, taking in everything in your living room, seeming almost disassociated, in a way.
"Hey, Duane?"
>He breaks out of his stupor, turning his attention to you.
>"Y-yeah?"
"So, I was thinking..."
>You scratch your neck again, feeling a bit awkward.
>Just how are you supposed to tell somebody that they need a shower, while still staying as polite as possible?
>And just how are you supposed to even get him into the shower?
>He's a young boy, you're a grown man, he needs help showering, and you're fairly sure that there's some kind of law against that.
>"S-so, what were you th-thinking?"
"Oh! Uh, nothing much, just, uh, wondering... if you'd like a shower!"
>"A s-shower?"
"Well, uh, yeah. I mean, you need to get all that mud off of you before fixing you up, so yeah. Trust me, you really don't want an infection."
>His curious expression has turned to one of suspicion, and you can't help feeling like you've stepped over some invisible boundary just now.
>"...I s-see."
>The silence is now heavier than ever before, and you mentally curse yourself.
>You really don't want to come off as some kind of pervert, but the truth is, he smells like shit.
>Besides, the sooner you get him cleaned up, the sooner you can both go to sleep.
"Listen, uh, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, it's just that, well... You really need to get cleaned up."
>This time, he looks away and seems to shrink back a bit, shoulders drooping.
>"O-oh."
>If the living room hadn't been deathly quiet, you don't think you would have heard him, his light voice barely more than a whisper.
>...
>Really smooth, Anon.
>Smooth like butter, you insensitive dick.
>The boy can barely walk, has been through God knows what, looks like he just ran through a mile of brambles, and on top of that, is probably developing pneumonia...
>And you just told him he smells like shit.
>...
>You sigh and get up from the armchair, Duane's eyes briefly focusing on you before moving elsewhere.

>Duane's first try at standing up ends miserably, the boy losing balance despite the second crutch you've given him.
>He falls towards you as you put your arms around him as gently as possible, halting his fall with your body, Duane groaning with pain.
"Whoa there."
>You gently help him to his feet, trying your best to not cause him any undue distress.
"Alright, take two. Come on, let's go."
>Duane nods briefly and takes a tentative step, your arm hovering behind his back.
>After the first step everything goes fairly smoothly, and you find yourselves in the bathroom in no time.
"Alright. You think you can take it from here?"
>"Y-yeah. I think so."
"So, uh, if you need any help, just yell. I'll go get you some fresh clothes. I don't think I really have anything in your, uh, size, but I'll try to get you something nice."
>"Okay. T-thank you. I, well, I r-really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it."
>With that, you close the door, leaving Duane to his own devices.

>Picking out clothes proved to be a harder task than you expected, but after a few minutes, you've managed to pick out something that looks like it won't just fall off him the moment he puts it on.
>It's nothing fancy, but a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that you grew out of years ago is the best you can muster right now.
>But the moment you turn around and head out of your bedroom, you hear a loud thump from downstairs, followed by a pained groan.
>...
>Shit.
>...
>You jog down the stairs and toss the clothes on the floor, striking the bathroom door twice with your knuckles.
"Duane? You alright in there?"
>His light voice answers you, shaky and clearly in pain.
>"Yeah, I'm f-fine, j-just f-fell down for a-"
>Another pained exclamation–this time more of a cry–sends you barreling through the door and into the bathroom.
>Duane's lying down on his back with a towel draped haphazardly over his hips, desperately struggling to get up from the slippery, tiled floor, the white porcelain stained with hints of washed-out red.
"Shit, are you okay?"
>"I-I'm fine, r-really! P-please, just-"
>You crouch down, ignoring his protests, and hook your arms under his armpits, pulling him upwards.
"Alright, come on, on your feet. Get up."
>Duane groans quietly as your hands hook together over his chest, his soft skin pressing into your forearms, his own hands holding onto the towel for dear life.
>While you do appreciate modesty, this seems a bit much.
>Yeah, you'd probably be embarrassed too if you were him, but it's just you two guys there.
>And it's not like you're gay or anything.
>...
>Shit, he doesn't think you're gay, does he?
>...

"There we go."
>Duane totters unsteadily as you give him another unsure smile while looking away, not wanting to intrude any more than you already have.
>He doesn't reply, instead concentrating on the blood-stained floor, one hand on his crutch and the other gripping his towel, a bright pink blush playing across his face.
>Taking the hint, you promptly exit the bathroom, moving the pile of clothes inside before closing the door.

>A few minutes later, Duane exits the bathroom and limps into the living room where you're sitting, clothes hanging off of him like the rags on an old scarecrow.
>With the dirt and grime washed off, it's painfully obvious just how malnourished he is.
>His arms are thin enough for you to close your fingers around his bicep, everything from the sleeve down covered in cuts, scars and bruises.
>The sleeves of your t-shirt hang down to his elbows, the neckline ending several inches below his painfully visible collarbone.
>He limps over to the–now newspaper-covered–couch and gingerly sits down, the paper-covered cushion barely compressing under his scrawny frame.
>You get up and rummage through the plastic bag filled with medical supplies, the boy quietly observing your every movement.
>You kneel down in front of him, placing iodine, cotton balls, bandages and band-aids on the coffee table, Duane watching with apprehension.
"Alright. You ready?"
>Duane shudders, not taking his eyes off the medical supplies, and gives a shaky nod.
>"Y-yeah. I'm r-ready."
"Alright. This might sting a little."
>You grab a cotton ball and upend the bottle of iodine into it, expecting the white, dry fluff to turn brown.

>That's when you notice you're out of iodine.
>With a quiet sigh, you rummage around in the bag, procuring a bottle of disinfectant, the clear liquid sloshing around inside the plastic bottle.
>...
>Scratch that, this is going to sting.
>A lot.
>...
>You sigh.
"Just tell me to stop if you need a break, alright?"
>Duane nods, now more apprehensive than ever.
>Bringing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball close to Duane's feet, you look at him, waiting for the go-ahead.
>He nods at you, and you gently rub the cotton on the soles of his feet, cringing in anticipation.
>Duane hisses in pain as spasms go through his legs, the deep cuts and scratches on the soles of his feet filling with burning alcohol.
>You keep going, soon having cleaned both of his feet, Duane hissing or groaning with practically every touch.
>As you move to the top of his feet, you notice something wrong.
>His legs are shaking violently, and as you look at him, you see that he is gritting his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, white, bony knuckles squeezed around the turnip.
"Duane."
>He whimpers, and you're not even sure he can hear you.
"Hey, Duane!"
>His eyes creak open and focus on you, the blue orbs now practically dull and lifeless.
"Y-yes?"
>His voice is barely more than a whisper, and you almost want to just throw away the cotton ball then and there.
"Should I, uh..."
>"No. K-keep going."
"You sure?"
>"Y-yes."
>You shrug, take a deep breath, and soak another cotton ball in alcohol.
>Thankfully, the rest of his body isn't as badly messed up as his feet, and you manage to disinfect everything up to his ankles without any more problems.
>You don't really want to go further up.
>He deserves privacy.

>His arms and neck aren't too badly cut up, and cleaning them goes by without any issue, although he shudders a bit more than usual when you clean his collarbone and chest, the ample neckline giving you plenty of room to work with.
>His face isn't particularly badly cut up, and you start working on what little wounds he has there, the alcohol-soaked cotton skating gently over his chin.
"Hold on. Move your head like... fuck it."
>You lay your hand on his cheek and turn his face away from you, cleaning the left side of his face.
>As you push his head the other way, you can't help noticing a deep shade of red shining from under his pale skin.
>You swallow some saliva, mouth suddenly dry, and try not to look him in the eyes.
>You fail miserably.
>Pale blue irises draw you in, his eyes filled with worry, sadness and something else you can't quite put your finger on.
>As you draw a deep breath, you absentmindedly notice that your hand has stopped moving, one hand on his cheek and the other one laying on his chest.
>...
>This is not okay.
>You pull away and stand up, breaking the hypnosis, the cotton ball still clenched between your fingers.
"W-well, uh, I, well, I th-think we're done here."
>"Y-yeah. M-me too."
>Both your voices sound hollow, almost dry.
>You leave some painkillers, band-aids and cough syrup on the table, packing the rest into the plastic bag.
"Anyway, I, uh, I'll leave some stuff here in case you need it. Do you want anything to, uh, eat?"
>"I... think I'll m-manage..."
>Duane has gone quiet again, one hand fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the other playing with his hair, a deep blush on his face.
"R-right. Anyway, if you need anything, just hit up the kitchen and help yourself."
>You scratch your head, feeling like you forgot something.
"Oh! By the way, the Tupperware containers? Please don't touch them."
>Hungry or not, you won't have him messing up your meal planning.
>...
"Except, uh, if you really need it. Just tell me which one you took."
>With that you leave him to his devices and stride to the bathroom, fists clenched and heart beating hard.
>And you have no idea why.

>After cleaning up blood, washing off Duane's jumpsuit and giving him an awkward 'good night', you're pretty much beat.
>As you trudge up the stairs while yawning, you hear Duane restart his discussion with the turnip.
>Except this time, it's a lot louder.
>You should probably just ignore it and go to bed.
>Besides, curiosity killed the cat, right?
>...
>You turn around and tip-toe down the stairs as quietly as possible, pressing your ear against the door of the stairwell.
>Duane's voice filters through the thin door, your skin erupting in goosebumps and stomach tingling with excitement, feeling like a little child listening in on a drunken discussion between grown-ups.
>"...we can't do that... No, Mister Turnip, we can't... He seems really nice..."
>Duane's stutter is all but gone, the boy now speaking confidently, a pleading, sorrowful edge to his voice.
"He wo-wouldn't do that, Mister Turnip! You're lying!
>Do what?
>"I d-don't believe you..."
>You hear a faint sniffle from the living room.
>It's almost as if Duane was...
>Crying?
>...
>You really think you've heard enough.
>Before you push yourself away from the door, you hear a final snippet of conversation, now barely more than a shaky whisper, punctuated by sniffles.
>"J-just d-don't do anything t-to him... p-please..."

>You walk up the stairs feeling deeply disturbed, the full weight of your situation again making itself clear.
>Just what the fuck is going on his head?
>What could a turnip even do to you?
>You groan and gently shut the bedroom door, pulling off your shirt, your pants following suit.
>After a brief moment of consideration, you grab a chair from the far wall and wedge it under the doorknob.
>Paranoid?
>Maybe.
>Sensible?
>Definitely.
>Sighing, you lay down on the bed and pull your socks off, the scraps of cloth flying through the air.
>Laying your head on the pillow, you close your eyes and drift away, too exhausted to think...