Caleb is still frowning, but it's a gentle, confused expression. He toes his sneakers off and sheds his jacket, then sits on the bed before laying down. He can feel Michael's chilly determination, for now, brighter and sharper than the hope he carries like a protected candle flame. He can feel the kids in the next room: one of them is frustrated, sharp, annoyed jabs that pull at Caleb's arms; one is sleepy and lonely, a blue mist that blankets Caleb's lungs in cold damp. Someone else, further away, is horny and trying to fight it, like they think it's wrong, or something. He tries to push it away before he can key into it, and finds the panic of schoolwork not getting done on time. He's too familiar with that, and it's exhausting in its own right.

With a heavy sigh, he stares up at the ceiling, but any trace of that easy sleep he'd had in Michael's truck is gone, replaced by tension in his jaw, shoulders, and forehead.