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sick_wilson2007-06-29 05:28 pm
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Welcome to Wherever You Are (2/11)
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house_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A hard "R".
WARNINGS: Yes. This chapter contains graphic violence and an assault that may prove distressing to some readers.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My First Readers.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Wilson was in his underwear, and he didn't like that.
The two armed guards sitting on either side of him, and the one opposite in the back of the rattling, swaying transport truck, however, didn't seem to mind at all.
He wondered what had happened to his suit. He had a vague memory of officers dragging him back to his cell after he'd been Tasered in the courtroom, of efficient hands stripping him down to his boxers and t-shirt. Wilson had tried to resist, but the cops had simply batted away his efforts as they pulled off the neon-orange prison garb he'd only worn for a short time. He'd left his dress clothes carefully folded on the bunk -- the blue pinstriped jacket and pants, the white Oxford-cloth dress shirt. He'd grabbed at his socks, trying to keep the hands from peeling them off his feet, but one of the policemen had punched him in the face and that had been that.
Then the handcuffs and ankle fetters had gone on and there'd been no more resistance.
The cops had tossed the discarded jumpsuit on top of his original clothes, the contrasting colors resembling a Dutch flag, and that had been the last he'd seen of his $795 Hugo Boss.
His three guards had shuffled Wilson out to the waiting truck, wrists manacled in front of him, the fetters' chain just long enough to allow him to take mincing, child-like steps. They'd hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes and sat him down on one of the two rough wooden benches that ran the length of the truck's bed on each side. Two of the guards had taken up positions on either side of him, while the third settled on the opposite bench.
None of the guards had answered any of his increasingly desperate questions, and after a while Wilson had stopped asking.
Now he sat in the back of the truck, sweating, trying not to think about how the youngest guard, the one across from him, was keeping what looked like a sawed-off shotgun pointed at Wilson's stomach. Everytime the truck jounced over a particularly large rut or bump in the road, Wilson took an involuntary breath and hoped it hadn't jarred the guard's trigger finger.
A drop of sweat trickled into his right eye and Wilson blinked. The truck's bed was covered with a canvas tarp that arched over their heads like a movable tent. It kept the fierce Nevada sun at bay, but it made the air inside the shelter hot and stifling.
They'd been driving for hours, just like last night. The back of the truck was open, but all Wilson could see was scrubby, semi-desert aridity. No signs, no landmarks, no homes or buildings.
No other vehicles.
Winston's going to wonder where his car is, he thought suddenly. Maybe he'll report it stolen. He held onto that hope for a moment. No. He's gone. He thinks you already turned it in at the airport. He won't know until the rental company calls asking where their car is.
Wilson looked at his feet, at the thin rubber flip-flops they'd given him in place of his Johnston & Murphys.
And who knows how timely the rental company will be? It could be days before anyone realizes the car is gone, and I'm not due back to work until Tuesday ...
He forced down the panic threatening to rise in his chest.
The truck bounced again. The steel bracelets glittered on his wrists and ankles.
With a hiss of air brakes and a grinding of gears, the truck shuddered to a stop.
Wilson looked around, but his guards didn't move, and after a moment the truck pulled forward again. He watched as a sentry post receded in the background, and as the truck continued to move his perspective widened.
Huge rolls of what appeared to be barbed and razor wire, as high as a man was tall, stretched out on either side of the gate secured by the guardpost. A wooden tower, topped with what in a more pleasant setting would've been a treehouse. Wilson could see the outlines of armed men walking back and forth in the shadows of the airborne sentry nest.
There were a few rows of tents that looked like what catering companies might set up in large backyards for peoples' summer garden parties, but instead of being dyed in bright, cheerful colors, these were a monotonously uniform shade of tan.
Somehow Wilson didn't think this was a garden party kind of place.
There was a long, low-slung wooden barracks with noisy air-conditioner window units, and one larger brick building with a trio of flagpoles in front.
The truck stopped again, and this time the guards at Wilson's side got up, pulling him with them. More uniformed men appeared at the back of the truck, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, and Wilson was hauled unceremoniously out of the vehicle. He stood for a moment, squinting against the bright sunlight.
He was in a clearing in the center of the encampment, hard-packed dirt and sand under his feet. A short distance away was what appeared to be the bare frame of a children's swingset, although there were no swings and no slide attached to it. A few prisoners, clad in bright red shorts and t-shirts, shuffled past, their ankles bound by the same type of fetters on Wilson's legs. The chain made snake-like, sinuous patterns in the dirt as they and their escorts brushed by, and neither they nor their guards looked at the new arrival.
"Come on," one of Wilson's guards said, and he jumped.
They were the first words anyone had spoken to him all day.
Wilson stood in front of the Warden's desk, trying not to tremble. He could smell himself -- the sweat and grime from the last twenty-four hours drying on his skin, the rancid odor of unwashed clothes. He winced inwardly at the picture he must present to the man behind the desk -- disheveled and dirty, black eye blooming on one cheekbone.
The Warden was a tall man, even seated behind his polished oaken desk. He filled out his suit with a wrestler's strong torso and the shoulders of a bull. His face was broad, his hair blond, salted with grey. His jaw worked slowly at some kind of gum.
He looked remarkably like Michael Tritter.
The Warden suddenly grinned.
"Noticing the family resemblence, right?"
Wilson gaped at him. The Warden rose from his chair, a smooth, uncoiling motion like that of a relaxed spring.
"I get that all the time," the man said. "When we were kids, no one could tell us apart." He walked around the desk, and stopped next to Wilson. "Must be why my cousin still confides in me." He leaned close, and put his mouth next to Wilson's right ear. "Tells me everything," he said softly.
Wilson swallowed.
"Please -- this is all a big mis- a misunderstanding."
The Warden pulled back a little.
"No," he said. "No, I don't think it is." He regarded Wilson contemplatively. "Do you know what my cousin Mike is doing now?" He didn't wait for an answer.
"He's writing parking tickets in Bayonne, New Jersey. Parking tickets. You see, you and your friend --" the Warden spat out the word as if it were filth on his tongue -- "Dr. House ruined Mike's career. After your boss lied on the stand and the case fell apart, they pulled his gold badge and busted him all the way back down to patrolman."
The room was silent.
"It wasn't our fault," Wilson whispered. His bare skin was beginning to prickle. The air conditioner hummed away in the background, and the office was very cold. "House needs ... he needs his pills to function."
"Is it Dr. House's fault then?" the Warden asked, and shook his head as he answered his own question. "But he's not here, and I'm afraid you are. Imagine my surprise when I learned it was you caught in our little speed trap." He smiled again, as if finally revealing the punchline to a big joke.
"So it was a set-up." Wilson felt faint and shivery.
"Oh, it was a set-up, all right," the Warden agreed. "That stretch of highway is one of the main sources of revenue for Hellebore County. You just happened to -- shall we say -- stumble into it." He clapped his hands together.
"But that's neither here nor there now. You're my prisoner, Dr. Wilson, and it's time for the two lessons I give to all the new guests here at Work Camp Five." He stepped back, and his smile grew wide and feral.
"I'll just particularly enjoy teaching them to you."
The Warden nodded, and with a bolt of terror, Wilson realized the three guards were still in the room.
"Bend him over the desk," the Warden said. "And get those boxers down."
The Warden is talking to him, but Wilson can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. They've got his cuffed arms stretched out across the top of the desk and he's struggling hard, trying to kick, but there are too many hands on him, holding him down, and he can feel a cold breeze on his bare ass.
"Command and control," the Warden is saying. "That's all it is -- who is to command, and who is to control." A gloved hand traces a path down Wilson's spine and he tries to scream but all that comes out is a strangled croak because one of the bastard guards has his fingers wrapped tight around Wilson's throat.
"And in both cases, that would be me," the Warden concludes. He leans over Wilson's back and Wilson tries desperately to flinch away but he can't because the three guards have him down and aren't letting him up anytime soon.
"I command, and you obey," the Warden says, as if stating a natural law. Wilson can feel his warm breath on his left ear.
"Say, 'I want it, Greg.'"
Wilson thrashes, trying to pull away, but the guards are used to winning these uneven battles and simply tighten their grip.
"Go to hell," Wilson pants.
"Oh, I think you're already there, Prisoner 24597. Say it. 'I want it, Greg.'"
"No," Wilson sobs. "God, no."
There's the click of a hammer being drawn back, and a small cold circle suddenly presses against the back of Wilson's head.
The Warden's voice is very calm.
"If you don't say it, Evans here will put a bullet in your brain. You'll be listed in internal records as shot while attempting to escape and buried in the camp cemetery under your prison number. No one will ever know what happened to you."
A low, keening whine escapes Wilson's throat as the Warden's hand finds its way to his testicles and squeezes.
"Say it," he growls.
And Wilson does.
Through his tears, as he's rocked back and forth on the Warden's desk, Wilson concentrates on anything, anything other than this nightmare. A small coffeemaker on a bookshelf nearby. A blue and white cup. A large diploma, propped in its gold frame on that same bookshelf. The name on the diploma.
Gregory J. Tritter
Wilson was outside.
He wasn't sure how he'd gotten there. His guards' hands were tight on his biceps and under his armpits, holding him up, because his legs didn't seem to want to support his weight. There was a terrible, burning ache --
No. No. Not going to think about ... that right now. Think about it later. Later.
"And now it's time for your second lesson," a voice said close by, and Wilson turned his head slowly.
It was the Warden. Warden Tritter.
"Do you remember what the second lesson is, Prisoner 24597?"
Wilson thought for a moment. His mind seemed to be processing at a greatly reduced speed. He wondered why that was, and decided not to think about that either right now.
"Control?"
"Yes," the Warden said. "Control."
He continued to speak, walking alongside as the guards dragged Wilson to the center of the camp, towards what had at first appeared to be a children's swingset.
"Those are the two most important precepts," the Warden said. "It's how I run this camp."
Close-up, Wilson could see that the metal framework was studded with large ring bolts all along the top horizontal bar. Recognizing at last what the "swingset" really was, he tried to pull away, but the guards held him easily as they raised his arms above his head and fastened his handcuffs to one of the bolts. Satisfied, they stepped away, leaving him pinioned by his wrists.
Wilson was panting again. He could hear some movement behind him but couldn't turn his head far enough to look around.
The Warden's face was inches from his own.
"Control," he said softly, "is what separates us from the animals. Command, and through it, control, is the supreme basis for the rule of law. And here, in this place, my rule is law."
Wilson choked back a startled yelp as unseen hands suddenly took hold of his collar and yanked. His white Fruit of the Loom undershirt ripped, and Wilson felt his back exposed to the warm air.
"The standard punishment for transgressions is this place is the whip," the Warden said. "Old-fashioned and rather Biblical, I'll admit, but quite effective. You will do well to remember that. Five!" The last word was shouted to someone else.
Wilson pulled at his cuffs, but they held tight. Behind the Warden, he could see other prisoners and guards passing by, but none of them paid the slightest attention to the small knot of men by the punishment bar.
There was a whistling, flying sound, and Wilson jerked as the first lash laid a line of fire across his shoulders. The Warden didn't flinch.
"I command, you obey," he said. "I control, you live or die."
Wilson tugged frantically at his tethers even as the second lash struck him. He cried out and tried to arch away.
"Please!" he gasped.
"Please, who?"
The third lash scored lower, across his kidneys, and Wilson screamed.
"Please, God!"
The Warden smiled, baring his teeth.
"No. Try again."
Wilson's back was on fire, and he could feel hot urine dribbling down his right leg.
"Please -- ahhhhh!" The fourth lash had snaked across Wilson's ribs, raising an instant, violently red welt.
"Once more." The Warden's voice was inexorable.
"Oh, God -- please, Greg!"
The fifth and last strike landed exactly where the first had, and Wilson collapsed, hanging half-conscious in his chains.
The Warden regarded him thoughtfully.
"I wonder how he would feel, hearing you beg like that. Using his name."
And he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Wilson still chained.
They left him there the rest of the afternoon, so that he would fully appreciate the two lessons he had learned that day.
~ Chapter Three
house_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A hard "R".
WARNINGS: Yes. This chapter contains graphic violence and an assault that may prove distressing to some readers.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: None.
BETA: My First Readers.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Wilson was in his underwear, and he didn't like that.
The two armed guards sitting on either side of him, and the one opposite in the back of the rattling, swaying transport truck, however, didn't seem to mind at all.
He wondered what had happened to his suit. He had a vague memory of officers dragging him back to his cell after he'd been Tasered in the courtroom, of efficient hands stripping him down to his boxers and t-shirt. Wilson had tried to resist, but the cops had simply batted away his efforts as they pulled off the neon-orange prison garb he'd only worn for a short time. He'd left his dress clothes carefully folded on the bunk -- the blue pinstriped jacket and pants, the white Oxford-cloth dress shirt. He'd grabbed at his socks, trying to keep the hands from peeling them off his feet, but one of the policemen had punched him in the face and that had been that.
Then the handcuffs and ankle fetters had gone on and there'd been no more resistance.
The cops had tossed the discarded jumpsuit on top of his original clothes, the contrasting colors resembling a Dutch flag, and that had been the last he'd seen of his $795 Hugo Boss.
His three guards had shuffled Wilson out to the waiting truck, wrists manacled in front of him, the fetters' chain just long enough to allow him to take mincing, child-like steps. They'd hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes and sat him down on one of the two rough wooden benches that ran the length of the truck's bed on each side. Two of the guards had taken up positions on either side of him, while the third settled on the opposite bench.
None of the guards had answered any of his increasingly desperate questions, and after a while Wilson had stopped asking.
Now he sat in the back of the truck, sweating, trying not to think about how the youngest guard, the one across from him, was keeping what looked like a sawed-off shotgun pointed at Wilson's stomach. Everytime the truck jounced over a particularly large rut or bump in the road, Wilson took an involuntary breath and hoped it hadn't jarred the guard's trigger finger.
A drop of sweat trickled into his right eye and Wilson blinked. The truck's bed was covered with a canvas tarp that arched over their heads like a movable tent. It kept the fierce Nevada sun at bay, but it made the air inside the shelter hot and stifling.
They'd been driving for hours, just like last night. The back of the truck was open, but all Wilson could see was scrubby, semi-desert aridity. No signs, no landmarks, no homes or buildings.
No other vehicles.
Winston's going to wonder where his car is, he thought suddenly. Maybe he'll report it stolen. He held onto that hope for a moment. No. He's gone. He thinks you already turned it in at the airport. He won't know until the rental company calls asking where their car is.
Wilson looked at his feet, at the thin rubber flip-flops they'd given him in place of his Johnston & Murphys.
And who knows how timely the rental company will be? It could be days before anyone realizes the car is gone, and I'm not due back to work until Tuesday ...
He forced down the panic threatening to rise in his chest.
The truck bounced again. The steel bracelets glittered on his wrists and ankles.
With a hiss of air brakes and a grinding of gears, the truck shuddered to a stop.
Wilson looked around, but his guards didn't move, and after a moment the truck pulled forward again. He watched as a sentry post receded in the background, and as the truck continued to move his perspective widened.
Huge rolls of what appeared to be barbed and razor wire, as high as a man was tall, stretched out on either side of the gate secured by the guardpost. A wooden tower, topped with what in a more pleasant setting would've been a treehouse. Wilson could see the outlines of armed men walking back and forth in the shadows of the airborne sentry nest.
There were a few rows of tents that looked like what catering companies might set up in large backyards for peoples' summer garden parties, but instead of being dyed in bright, cheerful colors, these were a monotonously uniform shade of tan.
Somehow Wilson didn't think this was a garden party kind of place.
There was a long, low-slung wooden barracks with noisy air-conditioner window units, and one larger brick building with a trio of flagpoles in front.
The truck stopped again, and this time the guards at Wilson's side got up, pulling him with them. More uniformed men appeared at the back of the truck, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, and Wilson was hauled unceremoniously out of the vehicle. He stood for a moment, squinting against the bright sunlight.
He was in a clearing in the center of the encampment, hard-packed dirt and sand under his feet. A short distance away was what appeared to be the bare frame of a children's swingset, although there were no swings and no slide attached to it. A few prisoners, clad in bright red shorts and t-shirts, shuffled past, their ankles bound by the same type of fetters on Wilson's legs. The chain made snake-like, sinuous patterns in the dirt as they and their escorts brushed by, and neither they nor their guards looked at the new arrival.
"Come on," one of Wilson's guards said, and he jumped.
They were the first words anyone had spoken to him all day.
Wilson stood in front of the Warden's desk, trying not to tremble. He could smell himself -- the sweat and grime from the last twenty-four hours drying on his skin, the rancid odor of unwashed clothes. He winced inwardly at the picture he must present to the man behind the desk -- disheveled and dirty, black eye blooming on one cheekbone.
The Warden was a tall man, even seated behind his polished oaken desk. He filled out his suit with a wrestler's strong torso and the shoulders of a bull. His face was broad, his hair blond, salted with grey. His jaw worked slowly at some kind of gum.
He looked remarkably like Michael Tritter.
The Warden suddenly grinned.
"Noticing the family resemblence, right?"
Wilson gaped at him. The Warden rose from his chair, a smooth, uncoiling motion like that of a relaxed spring.
"I get that all the time," the man said. "When we were kids, no one could tell us apart." He walked around the desk, and stopped next to Wilson. "Must be why my cousin still confides in me." He leaned close, and put his mouth next to Wilson's right ear. "Tells me everything," he said softly.
Wilson swallowed.
"Please -- this is all a big mis- a misunderstanding."
The Warden pulled back a little.
"No," he said. "No, I don't think it is." He regarded Wilson contemplatively. "Do you know what my cousin Mike is doing now?" He didn't wait for an answer.
"He's writing parking tickets in Bayonne, New Jersey. Parking tickets. You see, you and your friend --" the Warden spat out the word as if it were filth on his tongue -- "Dr. House ruined Mike's career. After your boss lied on the stand and the case fell apart, they pulled his gold badge and busted him all the way back down to patrolman."
The room was silent.
"It wasn't our fault," Wilson whispered. His bare skin was beginning to prickle. The air conditioner hummed away in the background, and the office was very cold. "House needs ... he needs his pills to function."
"Is it Dr. House's fault then?" the Warden asked, and shook his head as he answered his own question. "But he's not here, and I'm afraid you are. Imagine my surprise when I learned it was you caught in our little speed trap." He smiled again, as if finally revealing the punchline to a big joke.
"So it was a set-up." Wilson felt faint and shivery.
"Oh, it was a set-up, all right," the Warden agreed. "That stretch of highway is one of the main sources of revenue for Hellebore County. You just happened to -- shall we say -- stumble into it." He clapped his hands together.
"But that's neither here nor there now. You're my prisoner, Dr. Wilson, and it's time for the two lessons I give to all the new guests here at Work Camp Five." He stepped back, and his smile grew wide and feral.
"I'll just particularly enjoy teaching them to you."
The Warden nodded, and with a bolt of terror, Wilson realized the three guards were still in the room.
"Bend him over the desk," the Warden said. "And get those boxers down."
The Warden is talking to him, but Wilson can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. They've got his cuffed arms stretched out across the top of the desk and he's struggling hard, trying to kick, but there are too many hands on him, holding him down, and he can feel a cold breeze on his bare ass.
"Command and control," the Warden is saying. "That's all it is -- who is to command, and who is to control." A gloved hand traces a path down Wilson's spine and he tries to scream but all that comes out is a strangled croak because one of the bastard guards has his fingers wrapped tight around Wilson's throat.
"And in both cases, that would be me," the Warden concludes. He leans over Wilson's back and Wilson tries desperately to flinch away but he can't because the three guards have him down and aren't letting him up anytime soon.
"I command, and you obey," the Warden says, as if stating a natural law. Wilson can feel his warm breath on his left ear.
"Say, 'I want it, Greg.'"
Wilson thrashes, trying to pull away, but the guards are used to winning these uneven battles and simply tighten their grip.
"Go to hell," Wilson pants.
"Oh, I think you're already there, Prisoner 24597. Say it. 'I want it, Greg.'"
"No," Wilson sobs. "God, no."
There's the click of a hammer being drawn back, and a small cold circle suddenly presses against the back of Wilson's head.
The Warden's voice is very calm.
"If you don't say it, Evans here will put a bullet in your brain. You'll be listed in internal records as shot while attempting to escape and buried in the camp cemetery under your prison number. No one will ever know what happened to you."
A low, keening whine escapes Wilson's throat as the Warden's hand finds its way to his testicles and squeezes.
"Say it," he growls.
And Wilson does.
Through his tears, as he's rocked back and forth on the Warden's desk, Wilson concentrates on anything, anything other than this nightmare. A small coffeemaker on a bookshelf nearby. A blue and white cup. A large diploma, propped in its gold frame on that same bookshelf. The name on the diploma.
Gregory J. Tritter
Wilson was outside.
He wasn't sure how he'd gotten there. His guards' hands were tight on his biceps and under his armpits, holding him up, because his legs didn't seem to want to support his weight. There was a terrible, burning ache --
No. No. Not going to think about ... that right now. Think about it later. Later.
"And now it's time for your second lesson," a voice said close by, and Wilson turned his head slowly.
It was the Warden. Warden Tritter.
"Do you remember what the second lesson is, Prisoner 24597?"
Wilson thought for a moment. His mind seemed to be processing at a greatly reduced speed. He wondered why that was, and decided not to think about that either right now.
"Control?"
"Yes," the Warden said. "Control."
He continued to speak, walking alongside as the guards dragged Wilson to the center of the camp, towards what had at first appeared to be a children's swingset.
"Those are the two most important precepts," the Warden said. "It's how I run this camp."
Close-up, Wilson could see that the metal framework was studded with large ring bolts all along the top horizontal bar. Recognizing at last what the "swingset" really was, he tried to pull away, but the guards held him easily as they raised his arms above his head and fastened his handcuffs to one of the bolts. Satisfied, they stepped away, leaving him pinioned by his wrists.
Wilson was panting again. He could hear some movement behind him but couldn't turn his head far enough to look around.
The Warden's face was inches from his own.
"Control," he said softly, "is what separates us from the animals. Command, and through it, control, is the supreme basis for the rule of law. And here, in this place, my rule is law."
Wilson choked back a startled yelp as unseen hands suddenly took hold of his collar and yanked. His white Fruit of the Loom undershirt ripped, and Wilson felt his back exposed to the warm air.
"The standard punishment for transgressions is this place is the whip," the Warden said. "Old-fashioned and rather Biblical, I'll admit, but quite effective. You will do well to remember that. Five!" The last word was shouted to someone else.
Wilson pulled at his cuffs, but they held tight. Behind the Warden, he could see other prisoners and guards passing by, but none of them paid the slightest attention to the small knot of men by the punishment bar.
There was a whistling, flying sound, and Wilson jerked as the first lash laid a line of fire across his shoulders. The Warden didn't flinch.
"I command, you obey," he said. "I control, you live or die."
Wilson tugged frantically at his tethers even as the second lash struck him. He cried out and tried to arch away.
"Please!" he gasped.
"Please, who?"
The third lash scored lower, across his kidneys, and Wilson screamed.
"Please, God!"
The Warden smiled, baring his teeth.
"No. Try again."
Wilson's back was on fire, and he could feel hot urine dribbling down his right leg.
"Please -- ahhhhh!" The fourth lash had snaked across Wilson's ribs, raising an instant, violently red welt.
"Once more." The Warden's voice was inexorable.
"Oh, God -- please, Greg!"
The fifth and last strike landed exactly where the first had, and Wilson collapsed, hanging half-conscious in his chains.
The Warden regarded him thoughtfully.
"I wonder how he would feel, hearing you beg like that. Using his name."
And he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Wilson still chained.
They left him there the rest of the afternoon, so that he would fully appreciate the two lessons he had learned that day.
~ Chapter Three