sixthiterationlogs | And I lost hope when I was still so young

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And I lost hope when I was still so young

WHO: Boyd Crowder
WHERE: Fountain + stumbling towards the village
WHEN: backdated to Sept 9th
OPEN TO: literally everyone come at me
WARNINGS: TBD
STATUS: Open and ready to roll!

He's not sure what's happened, but he doesn't expect water to fill his lungs, nor does he expect his instincts that scream kick before it even processes he's in water. What water he's not sure, that doesn't even register--what registers is the unmitigated pressure of clawing through something for your life.

It shouldn't be a familiar feeling, but here it is, wrapping around Boyd's chest and squeezing, the devil tugging at his chest and Boyd refusing to give in. It had happened in the sandbox and it had happened in Harlan, and it's happening now. Kick, his instincts tell him, and he obeys, finally breaking to the surface with a loud yell. It's what he thinks is a loud yell, it's what his body wants it to be, but it's a fair large amount of liquid expelling itself from his already weary lungs.

He holds the edge of the well, coughing, for a few moments. Even then, heart racing in his chest, it's difficult to ascertain what's happened. It's difficult to ascertain much of anything, with his heart pounding in his chest. His ears are ringing, too, and once he stops coughing he actually manages to yell again, shouting as loud as he can to make sure, for some reason, the sharp ringing in his ears wasn't similar to tinnitus. It's not, and satisfied, if only very briefly, he finally pulls himself out of the well.

Boyd Crowder allows himself exactly five minutes to get his shit together. He uses only three. His slender, tattooed hand runs over his face, he takes a small, sharp breath accompanied by a tired sounding sigh, and he opens the bag he has on him.

He's already noticed the scrubs--red, reminding him far too much of a hospital, and he's always hated hospitals--and doesn't take them off despite the fact that they're wet. It doesn't take a genius to realize the contents of the backpack are the bare minimum in terms of survival gear, minus the actual useful parts. It's all clothes.

The clothes, at least, are dry. He spends a few seconds scanning the place, trying to get some semblance of what, exactly, he'd landed--or swam--into. A holler, he's guessing, though that doesn't explain why he ended up in a well. There's a crossroads stretching far ahead of him, buildings surrounding it. He clears his throat, voice hoarse from the water but loud nonetheless.

"Hello?" He calls, and when there isn't an immediate answer he shoulders his backpack and scans the place a second time.

He's blocking a lot of things out, at the moment: focusing only on the immediate, and not the emotionally important. It's a neat little trick he's had since mining when he was younger. In his mind, there's only the instruction walk forward. Nothing else--no questions regarding how or why. Not yet. He's looking for someone--anyone--who may be nearby.

"Be mighty inclined if someone were to show me some sort of way," He calls a second time, a little quieter. His southern accent is slow and smooth, like honey, though the furrow in his brow and the light desperation tinging his tone is anything but lazy.

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"The Inn's along this path!"

Kate realises that she's not the best person to greet those dripping and confused from the fountain. Her Australian voice rings out clearly, her tablecloth skirt and sheet blouse look nothing like the outfit all the prisoners have been issued with. That small, simple wood-and-cloth cross hanging around her neck, half peeking from her neckline.

But here she is. Hurrying along the path before stopping at a distance, being careful of her right ankle.

"I'm startin' to think we need to put a bell here. Let us know when someone else has been dropped here," she continues, as if she's a shopkeeper emerging from the backroom. But it's said wryly instead of jovial, and her eyes are careful. She remembers the other recent arrival in red, all cagey danger like a leopard.

This man, she doesn't know. Not yet. She's just arrived, just taking stock.

But her eyes linger on his hand, assessing tattoo and form both. You can tell a lot about someone by their hands.

At least, in her time.

The first person to greet him is a girl, and Boyd takes note of that in case it has some sort of deeper meaning. Probably not, but he's nothing if not observant. He has to be. Too many times caught with your pants down means getting shot in the face. Or the ear, if Detroit is anything to go by.

That doesn't mean he's going to show it--he sees her gaze flicker to his handand he flexes his fingers, as if subconscious, and keeps that smile right on his face. He's also acutely aware that she's dry, unlike him, and that the weather isn't exactly apropos for someone who's used to the dry Kentucky sun. He's just hoping he hasn't wounded up in somewhere like Australia, like her accent denotes.

"Allow me to apologize, ma'am, but I can't quite collect my wits and believe gettin' folks in the well could possibly regular occurrence until my doing so not five minutes ago."

The important thing is to be cool and collected, no matter the circumstances. He can freak out later, when he's figured out what the hell is going on. "I don't suppose you know the nature of why I'm here and how?"

Her own, naturally pale, hands are increasingly red from work, easily going back to how they'd been on her ma's selection. But so many here have had soft hands before the work has started to toughen them, she's learning that hands may not be as useful at judging class and skill. All those fancy machines in the future, she supposes. It makes it hard to read all those markers, markers which she'd not even really thought about much.

But this man is, she thinks, someone she can get something of a read on. That way of carrying himself like he's a foot taller than he is, hardened muscle that's all long and lean. Control, controlled, don't show he's at a loss.

"Regretfully," Kate starts off, and she is regretful, "it is indeed a regular occurrence. For these past two and a half months or so, we've been arrivin' here via that there fountain. No reason why that we can tell, or how. That's been a matter of some debate.

The important things are, really. Um. We've not figured out how to get back home yet. None of us. And we're from all different kinds of places."

And times.

She'll expand. In a moment.

Boyd's eyes scan the girl, though he knows instinctively she's not lying. He just wishes she was--so his gaze dips just a little lower, enough to catch the wooden cross. Strange, how something so simple can make one feel calm, at least for a few heartbeats.

It's familiar, at the very least. He quirks his upper lip, just for a split second, and that smile is back in place, gaze back at her eyes.

"And what kind of places would that be?" He asks casually, shaking his hands to get some of the water off of him. He's hoping she doesn't say something like Australia. And, at the same time, he's wholeheartedly expecting it.

"I was taken in Adelaide. That's in the colony of South Australia. There are a number of Americans, but from the accents, not all from the same place." As far as she can tell, but she's hardly an expert on the citizens of the United States and their accents. Unless they sound like her mother's second and Californian husband, Kate's guessing.

"One man, he's from Scandinavia. And there's a few people who don't appear, or. Well, I know it sounds outlandish, but they're from countries I ain't never heard of before. But their accent is nearly English, upper-class English."

She's aware that none of that is helpful. She's aware, too, that he's standing there, soaked to the bone, and she should repeat her offer of the Inn. But he'd heard her the first time, and she doesn't want to seem like she's hurrying him off before he's gotten his bearings.

Ah. Australia. Just what he was wishing she wouldn't say, and at the same time he's hardly surprised. She explains, and Boyd takes note of how she uses her words, and how her voice is fairly calm and warm the entire way through. She's done this before.

It would be admirable if Boyd wasn't irritated that he's here in the first place.

"That's the problem with us Americans, ma'am. Even in a state such as this, we still feel the need to outnumber y'all." But it's good information, and stuff that he'll gladly take and mull over.

"Now if we may head towards the inn you've mentioned, I'd love to get warm before I catch a cold, and I would be grateful for your company if you'd be so inclined as to indulge me."

"At least your countrymen are usually of a charming sort, I suppose," Kate says, the tilt of her full mouth making it clear the words are a gentle tease. She doesn't usually kid around with the newcomers, for they are usually too startled and frantic, but she risks it with this man. Where his control comes from, she's not sure, but as he continues to congenial, she'll continue in that vein.

"I live at the Inn, so I'll be headin' that way meself. Be no trouble. There's running water, and hot water in the bathroom. Towels and the like. I can see what's left from lunch, if you're hungry. And I'm Miss Kate Kelly, by the way" she adds, offering him her hand before she leads them down the path.

"Miss Kate Kelly," He takes her hand, grip firm, smile bright, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

This is good. The situation in itself is not, but he's managed to convince someone he's not as out of his depth as he is. It's pleasing, at it means he can still have a foothold on things. He's hanging by the skin of his teeth, but he can do it.

"Boyd Crowder, at your service." he keeps his voice soft and light, keeps it kind and gentle because there's no other reason. "I do believe I am in your debt, as well."

"And I'm pleased to make yours, Mr Crowder, for all it's a shame 'bout the circumstances," she says, shaking his hand, polite and prompt. She's not awkward doing this, shaking hands, but she sees no reason to linger, either.

"But I wouldn't go around sayin' you're in me debt. I'm not one to turn down a favour, mind, but I'm just doin' what any decent person should do. It'd be a sorry sort to leave a man stumblin' around for help."

As they walk, she thinks a little on what else to share.

"All of us who've arrived, our captors have given us some changes of clothes," is what she comes up with. "So there'll be somethin' dry for you to change into. But we don't have any kind of instruction or message as to what we're supposed to do here." Then she snorts, lightly. "There's only one pair of boots, too, because they couldn't afford to be too generous, it seems."

After living in both New York and Los Angeles, Peggy's well experienced in the metropolitan thrive of these two massive US cities. She hasn't had as much experience with the outlying regions, though of course she's met plenty of them. The Griffith had been full of people from the Midwest and the South, all people following their dreams - and some of those people pretending to be from a small town in order to enact their revenge.

Shaking thoughts of Dottie Underwood from her mind, Peggy manages a friendly smile, reminding herself that this is not New York and the SSR and its responsibilities have not followed her here. "I'm not exactly a wealth of direction, but I can offer some assistance," she says pragmatically. "Where are you hoping to go?"

And if it's out, then unfortunately, he's quite out of luck.

Ah. Boyd's first instinct is to smile just a little wider at her use of words. Succinct. Practical. He chuckles, just a few notes of slight amusement despite the situation not being amusing at all, and spreads his arms wide, still sopping wet, as if the entirety of waking up nearly drowning hadn't thrown him completely off.

He'll have time to regroup and collect his thoughts later. Preferably when he's learned a lot more about what the hell has just happened.

"Hoping to go wherever here isn't, as such. I don't suppose we're anywhere near Harlan, Kentucky?" It's a question that shouldn't even need an answer--of course they aren't--but Boyd lets the phrase slip through his lips anyway. "Though I would settle temporarily for a place with some sort of towel."

Her gaze slides to some of the water dripping down his arms, feeling rather sorry for him. She remembers that, even if it's starting to become more of a distance memory and oen that she has to reach towards to recall. "I've never even been to Kentucky," she apologises. "I don't even know if we're in a state or if we're simply in an in-between nexus of forest and canyon," she admits.

After all, it's like nowhere she's ever lived or seen and Peggy has had the chance to traverse a great deal of world.

"The towel, we could probably find in the inn," she offers, hoping that one piece of good news makes up for the rest.

Her accent is crisp and British and pleasing to the ears, and while he doesn't chuckle his smile widens, just a bit. It could be likened to the Cheshire Cat, had the animal look slightly more sinister.

"Ma'am, if you were able to point me to the direction I would be eternally in your debt," He says simply, and the smile finally dissipates from his face.

"At the very least the scenery around us is incredibly reminiscent. Can't quite say I enjoy waking up in a well."

While she's never been to Kentucky, she's certainly heard such drawls around New York City. She'd always found them both pleasing and worrying, because if you could turn all your words into something as sweet as honey, then people had a tendency to stop paying attention to the content. She shakes her head loose of such suspicions, telling herself it's unkind, and begins their short walk to the inn.

"Is this what Kentucky is like?" she asks conversationally. "Apart from waking up in wells," she amends. "I would think that's more what happens after a night on the town in New York City."

Boyd laughs at that, rich and full, and decides that this girl is definitely someone he should keep an eye on. If anything, because she's quite easy on the eyes and has some decent quips.

The rest of the village is in better view--mostly because Boyd has wiped the water off of his face with the back of his hand--and he realizes just how small it is. It reminds him of a ghost town, only there's no reason for it to be abandoned, no mine running dry to force people to move away.

"It's a lot sunnier and warmer, usually, and there're hollers, and there ain't no one that speaks with your cadence and vernacular." He surveys the place, briefly, and then glances over.

"I don't suppose I could ask for a name?"

"Peggy Carter," she introduces herself, extending out her hand to avoid impoliteness. While she's not quite eager to throw herself trusting people so easily, she also doesn't see the intelligence in creating enemies with no information at hand. Better to simply be polite and gather more knowledge about the situation.

"I'm sorry. A holler?" she echoes, utterly lost. "Is there a surfeit of shouting in Kentucky?"

"Boyd Crowder," Boyd introduces, his handshake firm, smile as wide as ever. "Even under these circumstances, it's a pleasure to meet a fine lady such as yourself."

The second comment earns a laugh, but it's not one of maliciousness--it's genuine amusement, mostly because he's not sure he's ever had to explain it before, even overseas in the sandbox. It makes sense, though--she's very obviously British, her words clear and her vowels shaped with a quality that reminds him of singing.

"I'm afraid we seem to have our wires crossed, Miss Carter--where I hail from, asides from shoutin', a holler is a valley with a creek, near some mountains. Harlan has some awful pretty ones, should you choose to one day visit a spell after these unfortunate evens are over."

This much charm is typically a warning sign for her, but perhaps that's just because charming men in Peggy's life usually end up being filled with poor ideas -- she only needs cite Howard, Dum Dum, and the rest of the boys for a start and she can continue the list for days. Still, there doesn't seem to be that many ways to get yourself in trouble, so for now, she tolerates the charm pleasantly enough.

Besides, at least he has the decency to use manners and call her 'Miss Carter'. "I've never heard of that term before," she admits, thinking it's quite the creative one. "I suppose we just called that a valley. We're not very descriptive, at times."

She furrows her brow and gives him a curious look. "Is there a reason you're so positive there's escape on the horizon?"

"Not positive as such, more confident," though he's splitting hairs at this point. His brows arch, expressive despite his predicament, and he sweeps a hand forward as he explains.

"You ever been in a mine, Miss Carter? Coal or anythin' else, doesn't matter, all mines are the same in the end."

Her expression turns somewhat steely and darker now for the question. "I spent a week below ground in the sewers of New York City." Beyond that, there had been so many leftover tunnels in France from the first war that she had bunkered down in and so many times during the Blitz that she'd used the tube to hide in, that there were times when she wondered if she would ever see the sun again.

"So, yes, unfortunately, not quite a mine, but close enough."

Boyd's brows lift, and while he walks towards the inn still, he's acutely aware of the richer tone in her voice and the dark glance.

What he really wants to know is how someone as polished sounding as her wound up in New York City fishing for a ninja turtle or two. But he keeps his lips sealed--just long enough to address his original point.

"Then you know that even despite cave ins, or dead ends, there is still the real possibility of getting back to the surface. Some may not be lucky, but--I'm sorry, allow me to inquire as to why a woman such as yourself was in the refuse of one of the largest American cities?"

She allows her lips to twist up in amusement and gives him a tip of her head to one side. "I could very well say that it's classified and I'd be right," she says, "but I don't think the details are necessarily all that secret. It was during the war," she explains. "And I'm afraid that there were any number of reasons to be underground in a place like the sewers." And as to her actual purpose, that is classified to the point that she doesn't think she can discuss it, especially with a stranger.

"But yes, I do know how depressing and unfortunate those conditions can be." She regards him curiously. "And you were a miner, then? In Kentucky?"

Classified. Joking or not, Boyd's mind immediately flickers to the likes of Raylan Givens and company. He doubts Peggy's a United States Marshal, but it's a natural leap of thought as she keeps talking.

War. A soldier? Boyd's brows lift, and he looks immensely more pleased than he has before, offering an arm for her to grab so they can walk together, if they so see fit.

"Thank you for your service, or whatever the non-patronizing version of that turn of phrase is. I served myself--after my summer job in the mines," he confirms. "Khandahar, Iraq. Lotta good men and women there," he continues, and, after a brief pause, lets his gaze flicker down and away from her face or their destination.

"The thing about mines, Miss Carter, and it's an awful lot like the sandbox like this, is you ain't particularly sure if you're the canary in the shaft or not." He's beginning to suspect this is definitely the former.

Edited 2016-10-07 23:27 (UTC)

He's incredibly charming, to the point that Peggy fears that she absolutely has his number and yet, it makes no difference as to how it's affecting her in quite the thorough way. Worse, she suspects that he knows this. She does take his arm, simply because it's easy enough and she's hardly that rude.

She narrows her eyes as she places those locations in her mind, but she'd never seen fighting in that particular part of the world. She didn't even think the war had made it that far. "I was in the European theatre," she responds, beginning to think that once again, she's out of time with the person she's speaking with.

"What other choice does a canary in a cage have, but to fight?" she points out. "Caged in, it can only survive. Or, outside pressure will only grow too heavy," she says, thinking of the Welsh miners that had told stories of their own mines. She hadn't relied on the tunnels and trenches like they had thirty years before her time, but she'd seen them, and she could understand what it did to a man's mind.

European theatre. Strange. Boyd mulls her words over for a few brief moments, glancing at her for a moment. Time not being linear hasn't yet crossed his mind--and when it will, a lot of things will make sense. Right now, he's focused on piecing together other things, anyway. Like why he's even here.

Peggy's next words evoke a smile, and it's absolutely genuine. The way she talks is definitely incentive to keep her close, if only because he's never quite met a girl that can keep up with his vernacular. Save Ava, of course, though that thought jolts a little bit of sadness loose from inside him.

If he's here, then where's she?

"I can't quite say I understand this place, or why I'm here, but I do hope you'll indulge me with more conversation after I dry myself off."

"Of course," is her polite, instant rejoinder. Again, while she may not be ready to trust anyone at first sight, Peggy is more than happy to forge acquaintances and act with the proper manners that are required in such a situation. She opens the door to the inn and gestures for him to walk inside.

"You can find some privacy here," she offers, thinking that perhaps he might be able to change and dry off. "I'd be happy to carry on our conversation, but I will warn you that I'm not sure I'll have all the answers you're seeking."

Privacy. Yes, Boyd needs that--but he needs a lot more. Answers, mainly, though Peggy has just told him she can't provide all of them. Boyd doubts it's because she's being cagey.

"It pains me we're both in this situation," he sais lightly--earnestly, too. "I a pleased that a lovely woman such as yourself ain't saying no to a bit of small talk, either."

He drops his gaze, just a touch, and his smile dims only for a fraction of a second. Boyd can handle a lot of things--and while this certainly isn't anything he's handled so far, he's temporarily coping with it relatively well. It doesn't mean it won't catch up to him somewhere between now and a week, though, and from the looks of it, it's starting to seep in. Just a tad.

"Thank you."

She softens at the thanks, given that many people wouldn't be so thoughtful as to offer such a thing. "I haven't exactly given you much to thank me for," Peggy points out, taking a seat and crossing her legs as she smooths a hand over her knee in order to wait patiently for Boyd to find himself some dry clothes.

"You're going to get through all this," she promises. "We all are, I think. We just don't know the cost, yet."

She hears his voice, drawn to it from the edges of the woods. Her early morning had been spent exploring and taking in the last of the heat, as Winter was coming. There was still enough fruit and mushrooms to harvest, helping to prepare and store the food they would need to survive.

Margaery had been too absorbed in her thoughts to have heard someone pull themselves from the fountain. But his cry for assistance was hard to ignore. Pulling herself up from the base of the tree, she peeked through the branches towards the fountain.

She smiled sheepishly, approaching him with a measure of hesitation. She had no desire to scare him. "It is a rather rude awakening. I could show you to the inn so that you might get warm, if you like?"

Boyd's suddenly and vividly reminded of deer him and his daddy used to hunt, though he's fairly certain the metaphor isn't exactly the best one to use at this point in time. She already looks incredibly used to whatever has happened, and his eyes narrow, briefly, as he considers her accent. Floral comes to mind--polished and distinctly British, something he hasn't heard in years and years.

Boyd shouldn't be sizing people up but it's a habit; an inherent trait that comes from living in Harlan. If you don't know someone from the community, you're automatically on edge, if just a bit. It's more than small-time southern habits, too: he didn't climb his way to the top by underestimating everyone.

As it is now, he smiles, teeth white and dazzling. "I do believe that to be an understatement, but apt nonetheless. If you would be so kind as to show me that way, ma'am, I would be much obliged and in your favour."

She can feel him analyzing her. Years in King's Landing and preparing herself to play the game of thrones had honed her abilities at detecting such things, as well as a talent to analyze others as well. She would normally be on guard, but given the world they were now in, such things were not as necessary as before.

Let him look, there was nothing to hide anymore. Instead, she met his eyes with concern and gentleness, conveying how harmless she was. The image had always been her defense, but only recently became herself. The role was her new identity. Harmless, no longer a player in the game.

"Of course," she replied, gesturing towards the village. "The inn has a number of rooms for you to stay in. Though, if you prefer, you could claim one of the empty homes in the village. It would grant you some privacy."

"Well, now, this sounds like a more permanent solution," Boyd says cautiously, southern drawl accentuating his hesitation. The smile is still on his face, though it's thinned a bit and it has nothing to do with the British woman in front of him--with the way she's phrased things it already sounds like she's used to this sort of thing. It's not a good sign.

"Forgive me if I'm not so inclined as to settle here, but I find when comin' outta a well, I ain't exactly willing to acclimatize so quickly and be as bold as getting a house."

"None have been able to find a way out of this place." She said simply. "When I first arrived, some dove into the waters, trying to follow whatever brought me here. There was nothing. There was only the fountain's bottom, no signs of entrance or exit."

She regarded him in concern. "The inn should make you feel more at ease then. However, things are a bit difficult here, perhaps more than you are used to. We lack a number of luxuries. We have to catch our own food and gather firewood for the night."

Interesting. Boyd takes this in, regarding the girl with the soft brown hair and wide, doe-like eyes. She's quick to hand out information, looking him over in turn. Boyd is fairly certain he looks a mess, wet and miserable, but if he can use that to his advantage he will.

Not that he needs to, of course. But the thought is always lingering in the back of his mind. It's a frame of mind that's helped him survive his daddy and Harlan in general.

"You sound like you've been here for a long while, ma'am. Can't say that idea thrills me none too much, so you'll excuse me if I find settling in to be a bit low on my list, priority wise."

He looks no worse than the others that she has seen after their arrival. It's hard to forget that when she climbed from the fountain, she resembled a drowned rat more than a highborn lady. Once he was settled and cleaned up, he would look more comfortable...if not at ease. Not all could achieve that state.

"Not that long," she clarified. "I think it has been near two months, but there are others who have been here a bit longer, though none more than three months."

She nodded, "I understand that. I hope at least that you find the answers you seek. Would you like me to show you the way to the inn?"

Three. It seemed like it stopped after that, from what she was saying--Boyd is quiet for a few moments, parsing the other's words, paying attention to her cadence, her tone, her body language. Ultimately, she's not a threat. Not yet.

He's never been fond of doubting people. From the number of times he's let people doubt him and spun it to his advantage, he's learned.

"I would be much obliged, ma'am, and forever grateful."

Which is to say yes: lead the way, Margaery.

She nodded, directing him towards the inn. "The bag that you had on your arrival will have fresh clothing for you. There should be food available as well. A young woman named Kate arranges a daily lunch. I think you should be able to meet others there and receive better answers than those that I can give."

It would at least help him feel at ease.

"If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask me." It was the best she could offer him.

Raleigh likes to help those who have just arrived and this guy is no exception. It's disorienting as hell to come to this place, especially when everything has been flipped around by the earthquakes. When he hears him call out, he rushes over to see if he can guide the guy back to what passes for civilization.

"Hey, yeah, I can show you around. There's not much to it but I'll be happy to point you in the direction of the village."

The man that helps him is taller than him by a few inches, and Boyd's gaze sweeps over him. Physically fit. A challenge if anything were to happen.

It's Boyd's natural reaction to gauge things like this. Threats, or any potential trouble. It's who he is. It's what helps him survive. He seems like a friendly face, but so does Boyd. He winds up smiling, though his confusion still leaks through--that's something he can't mask.

He needs to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"And I don't suppose I could inquire as to the reason of my being here, let alone the fact that I'm fairly certain we are not anywhere near Kentucky?"

"You could definitely inquire," Raleigh says, shrugging slightly. He shakes his head a bit; that's all they've been doing, asking, and no answers have really come forth other than this place is going to keep sending new people in. That's the only consistent thing about the place so far, the new arrivals.

"But I don't have any answers. I've been here almost three months now, I think, and I haven't figured out the how or why of us being here. I don't think anyone has."

Three months. Boyd's brows lift, framing his face in an arch, and even if he wanted to he's fairly certain he couldn't hide the surprise on his face. Three months.

"I don't suppose you're the kind of face that enjoys a good joke when dealing with new arrivals?" He says thinly. Three months is an awfully long time.

"Wish I was," Raleigh says. He's got a sense of humor, sure, but not about something so serious as this. Arriving in this place is the worst joke and finding out that you're stuck is the awful punchline. He doesn't ever want to deliver it.

"Afraid it's true, though. We're all stuck here and we've been stuck here for a while now."

It's a joke Boyd will be rather glad Raleigh doesn't use--he comes from a world not of robots and monsters, but of men trying to do good work. Or, in Boyd's case, work of the shady variety.

"How long? I don't suppose y'all have a bus we can just hop along so I can get back? I was in the middle of rather pressing matters."

"I was too. So far as anyone can tell, the only way into this place is through that fountain," Raleigh says. "And there's no way out. I don't think anyone has exactly tried to go back through the fountain the same way we came in but I'm guessing it's just a one-way door."

It would fit with the rest of the annoyances of this place, anyway, so Raleigh hasn't given it a shot.

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And I lost hope when I was still so young

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