Low-top canvas sneakers hurriedly stomped against the cracked pavement, the loose soles emitting a faint but still annoying squeak with each heavy step as they trailed their way up a dark flight of stairs onto the second floor of the motel.

'214' was the room Taylor was looking for, and she even double-checked the text message on her phone to make sure.

After passing several suites, she noticed that the numbers were disarranged and didn't appear to follow any pattern whatsoever. It crossed her mind that the building's designer had to be either heavily intoxicated or under the influence of something highly potent. Which, in this area, she couldn't really blame them. She would be too.

Every building she passed by was run-down in this seemingly vacant side of town. The few residents, more like inhabitants, she could spot were gathered in a side alley between a boarded-up movie theater and what she assumed was once a thriving bowling alley. She could tell they were trying to stay warm as they huddled around a small fire ignited in the middle of a charred tire rim. But, considering each cloud of condensation escaping their mouths was thicker than all of their deteriorating blankets combined, it was apparent that the decrepit attempts were nothing but dissipated.

Still able to see them in the distance, she watched as the close-knit group laughed among themselves while they evenly split what appeared to be a scavenged club sandwich. Initially, she couldn't help but pity the strangers. But she soon realized that what she had first mistaken to be compassion was in fact envy.

The uneven floor beneath her caused her to stumble and she clasped onto the railing, regaining her balance—and focus—almost immediately. Her palm felt glued in place by some form of dense substance and, as she peeled her hand away from the bar with haste, her emotions quickly shifted from compassion to that of utter disgust. To be able to live in these conditions and veil out such despair, she believed one must possess an astonishing amount of fortitude. Or just a really strong stomach.

She brushed her palm against her pant leg to scrape off the remaining residue of whatever the hell she had just touched. Noticing a thin strip of light cast upon her, she glanced up to see that she was conveniently standing in front of a door labeled '214'. But, oddly enough, it was cracked open and unchained.

"Mor—" she stopped herself from calling out, already knowing better.

She steadily reached forward to push the door open, already at high alert as her other hand now quickly dug into her back pocket to grab her keys. Her index finger wrapped around a thick plastic tube of mace and she easily drug it out, careful not to allow her keys to jingle in the process.

Despite her tenacious efforts to remain quiet, the door dramatically squealed from its rusted hinges as it unexpectedly swung open to the slight touch and slammed into the wall with such force that a hideous painting rattled in its lopsided position from above the bed.

"Shit." There was clearly no point in trying to remain quiet. "Morgan? Are you in here?"

Strangely it felt colder inside the room than it did outdoors, even though she could hear the heater humming from the vent above. Then again, she couldn't feel any air coming out. As she stepped further inside, she recognized the distinct sound of water sprinkling against an acrylic slab coming from the open door leading to the restroom. Steam drifted from the doorway, the mirror mounted above the sink across from her already coated from condensation. She followed the vapor, almost enticed by the warmth if not the curiosity alone, and turned the corner to find herself facing an azure colored shower curtain. Although the plastic liner was slightly translucent, she was unable to tell whether or not someone stood on the other side.

"Morgan?"

One hand reached for the forward as another aimed the pepper spray, ready to pull down on the trigger at any moment. Without further hesitation, she quickly pulled at the curtain to find nothing but an empty tub as water poured down onto it from the shower head above. As she turned off the faucet, a blurred figure moved in the reflection of the tile and she spun around, aiming the mace forward when—

Morgan shielded his eyes with his hand the second he saw the plastic nozzle pointed his way. "Yo! Seize fire, it's just me."

"What the hell, Morgan?" She took in a heavy breath, the can of pepper spray still aimed his direction. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Hey, chill." He grabbed her hand, slowly lowering it. "I didn't know you were here."

"Maybe try locking your door."

"Uh, I just ran down to the office to grab some towels." He flashed the edge of two towels slung over his shoulder. Apparently he didn't bother to slip his shirt back on before heading out. "Not a big deal."

"Not a big deal? I'm sorry but were you not there when some psychopath was butchering all of our friends? Do you really need a recap?"

He glared at her, waiting for her mind to register how unnecessary that remark was. And, as she took in another long breath, it finally kicked in.

"Okay, sorry. Sorry..." She shook her head, glancing down at the floor. "I guess maybe I'm overreacting a little."

"You guess? Maybe? A little?"

She didn't respond.

"Look, I know you're still shaken up. We all are. This isn't something that we can just shrug off and move on with our lives like nothing happened. I think I can speak for all of us when I say I wish it was that easy. But it's not. We have to try to move on." He grabbed her shoulder to give it a light squeeze. If anything, it made her feel even more uneasy. "He's dead, Taylor."

"No. I told you what he said that night, and I can't help it but those words still haunt me to this day. Something doesn't add up and..."

"I get it. I really do. But come on Tay, you can't keep living in constant fear. I know what we—" he quickly corrected himself, "what I did to him was beyond fucked up, but that doesn't justify everything he did. Garrett was crazy. Cuckoo in the goddamn head crazy. He was just trying to get to you. Don't let him."

It's about time Morgan stepped up and began acting somewhat his age. But, despite the fact that he still held a year and a half over her, deep down she always felt like the older one. And it was apparent by her overwhelming concern. "Look, just be careful. I know you just got out a few weeks ago and it must be exhilarating to be outside of those walls. But don't let that cloud your judgement. We both know that ignorance is a weakness that can easily get you hurt. If not worse."

He nodded, knowing better than to further argue with her on this subject. "Sorry for worrying you. And for probably smelling like moldy cheese. Had to clean a sewer drain today and, needless to say, I've yet to take a shower."

"So I take it you didn't send out any apps today?"

"I was busy with work."

"For the millionth time, community service is not a job. A job actually pays you."

"Jesus, are you my mom or my sister?" He cracked a smile in a poor attempt to lighten the mood but, judging by her blank expression, it didn't work.

"Right now, I feel like both. Damnit, Morgan. It's been almost a month now. You had plenty of time to get on your feet. And you're sure as hell not going to save any money staying here. How much is this place even costing you?"

"$84."

"Per night? Are you crazy?"

He shrugged. "You gonna let me stay with you?"

"Yeah, move on in. A dorm full of horny girls with my annoying brother who is physically incapable of wearing a shirt for more than five minutes. What could possible go wrong there?"

He glanced down at his chest. "When you put it that way... When can I start packing?"

"I hate you," she said with a roll of the eyes.

He jumped at the first opportunity to change the subject. "Seriously, can you believe this shitty ass hotel didn't have a single towel in the bathroom?"

"Actually, yeah. I can." She pulled something out of her pocket and reached out to hand it to him. "Anyway, here. Figured you're tired of taking the bus."

A smile spread across Morgan's face as he immediately recognized the worn leather band tied around the key to his Mustang. It was a small gift Casey had bought him when they had started dating at the beginning of their freshman year, one that he couldn't part with even after their explosion of a break-up. Not because he still had feelings for her, but more so due to that it reminded him of a time when things were more simple and carefree. Before football took over his life.

Taylor crossed her arms, a smug undertone hidden in her voice, "I made sure to regularly change the oil and check the tire pressure. Even gave the core components a once-over."

He cocked a suspicious eyebrow. He may have been locked up for some time, but he knows damn well that with her limited knowledge of cars there is no way anything she just said could be remotely true.

"Okay fine. I made Dad check it."

"Thanks." He set the key on the counter. "I just... I don't know if I can go back there yet."

Their parents stopped visiting him about a month after he was incarcerated and, shortly after, Taylor was the only one appearing at the court house on his behalf. His mother showed up near the end of his sentence to sign a few dozen forms before his release but she didn't even make eye contact with him once. He couldn't help but think they were ashamed of him and, truth be told, he wouldn't blame them if that was the case.

Multiple times Taylor reassured him that, being a close friend to Mrs. O'Neil, their mother found it difficult to accept that her son was responsible for Garrett's accident and ultimately his death. Taylor said eventually she would come around and visit him, but she never did.

"You have to face them eventually."

He replied immediately, the thought clearly lingering on his mind for quite some time, "Like they faced me?"

Taylor didn't say anything. Instead, she turned to the mirror to see a distorted reflection of herself staring back at her through the fogged glass.

"Yeah. Well look, I know it's late so you're welcome to stay the night at this dump." Truth is, he didn't want to be alone. He went months without seeing his sister, outside of visitation and trials that is, so the past couple of weeks he had been trying to spend any possible moment he can with her. "If you want."

The feeling was clearly mutual. Despite diving into a new crowd of friends she met on campus and at work, she felt lonelier than ever. She would never say it out loud but she missed him. Even though he could be a true dickhead at times, he's still her brother. And, above anything else, he gets her.

"Gee, thanks. When you put it like that, how could I say no?" She smiled. "That and the fact that I drove your car here. So I am kinda limited on options."

Shortly after a few minutes of more sibling banter, she found herself curled up on the loveseat next to the window while Morgan was finally able to start his shower. Her attention was drawn back to the homeless group across the street once again, watching through the glass pane as she saw a black and white car lurk down the two streets boxing in the alley like a buzzard circling the carnage as it searches for its prey. Eventually it made a sharp turn down the passageway as red and blue lights flashed upon their cardboard homes, the smoke pillaring rapidly from their makeshift bonfire likely drawing the attention of a nearby police officer. Looks like they might have to migrate elsewhere for the night.

A door opened behind her but she paid it no attention.

Morgan frantically ran a towel through his hair to dry it, another one wrapped around his lower waist, and he stared at himself in the mirror as he eyed the stubble bordering his jawline. He picked up an electric razor from nearby the sink and began trimming the scruff trailing down to his neck. "You gonna go see Marc tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

He stopped what he was doing to turn to her. "Tell him I said hi."

Taylor pulled a nearby chain, drawing the curtains closed.