It was late morning and Fraser was so tired he could barely stand. They'd escaped at dawn, were whisked off to the hospital, where there was more waiting and uncertainty and weirdness. He hated hospitals, the same way any sane person hated them. Or, at least, that's what Fraser thought— that it was normal and right to be wary of them.

"I don't care where they think I am. I'm already late anyway," he said, shrugged. Exhausted as he was, his heart stuttered at Stan's request. "We can do sleeping bags."