It hurts but it doesn’t burn, and that’s good. Hopefully it’s just the wound, and no funny business.

Grabbing one of the other pipes, apparent now from the sprung side of the trap, he hisses, lips tight to teeth as he bends his good leg under him to take the weight off the punctured one. With a tense and ginger lift on his tippy-toes, he frees himself. He turns the controlled fall that follows into a hard sit-down on the crumbling steps, and rubs his head. A thumb run carefully over the offending point reveals a clean, unsoiled edge. He leans back against the wall, realizing that he needs to catch his breath.

Clean. That’s something, he guesses.

The wall across from him features what must have been once been the profile of a woman with unrealistically clean hair. The sagging, water-faded images like these that still remain in the more sheltered nooks haven’t shown the lasting power of the painted red circle and blue line.

The bleeding stops with pressure. The sound, however, remains.