There's an entry I want written, I do I do... but I've no desire to explain its potential contents here, so it will simply have to wait until a time when I can talk to you online, little one. For the moment, a consolation prize, something I'll enjoy reading when the pain and coughing wake me next:

There's a dark-haired boy sitting on the floor of your room. He's bruised pretty bad, worse than you've seen. No clothing but a pair of pants that he's having trouble keeping up (they're nearly falling apart and several sizes too large), lips dry and skin pale, clearly dehydrated and hungry. There's a bit of dried blood here and there across your floor, a faint bloody handprint on the door.

Talk with him. Talk to him. Talk about him. *shrugs*

I want to see.