Time heals all wounds. In this case, time only numbed the stressing events that had occurred recently. In some ways, Dawson had almost completely disassociated from it, though he wouldn't know what that word meant. He would only know that in the following weeks after that late May surprise, he would find his memories vague, filtered through something soupy and blurred, like his finger had accidentally jammed over the focus lens just a second before the flash and click.

There is a girl asking him to sing Rhianna for shits and giggles, there are sticky pads covering the blood on his hands, the plastic or paper or whatever it was that counted as packaging clinging like weak band-aids, someone yells at him to hurry up, water bottles handed out like treats, tablecloths torn and wrapped and quickly changing color, sirens and blasting colors beyond the door, loud, loud voices--

Most days, he tried not to worry about it. He did have a job after all, and lately it had grown more demanding. Mrs. Potosi often left to visit some of her friends who had been injured, or at the very least had the news constantly streaming in one of the small tvs near the front.

{We have an update on the Rider-Waite Job Fair Incident at Blackfriars. The main assailant has been identified as Edward Grey...may have had accomplices who were part of a club on campus...The drug fueled violence in mid May left dozens injured...Grey was killed on the scene, but his accomplices, if any, have evaded capture...}

The news always bummed him out. Dawson didn't understand why she liked to keep it on twenty-four seven. And then he remembered the friends in the hospital.

{The body of college student Michael Mitchell was found after it washed up on the Waite State Beach on Saturday in the afternoon. Authorities have closed off the area to further trawl the bay...}

Wasn't Mitchell one of those missing kids he had heard about? Jesus...

{Should you have any information that could lead to the arrest of these individuals, please call Ashdown P.D. at 212-331-4322.}

And tell them what exactly? The news cast had already stated that the whole contagion schtick some of those people had tried to trick them with hadn't worked out. Hell, Dawson still wasn't sure if that was even true or not--not so much on the whole werewolf thing, that much was clearly obvious, but on whether it wasn't some form of disease. Magical disease. And just how damn contagious it was.

He had spent more than one day in a sweat, wondering if any scratch he'd gotten (and most especially the head wound) would mean he too would go crazy on the next full moon. s**t, did he have to start keeping track of that too? This was starting to get to be too much for someone like Dawson. He'd come here to get a new beginning, get some cash, get an apartment if he was lucky, and then get his daughter back. This...bullshit (for he had no other umbrella word to cover all of the madness in) was throwing his plans to the wind. How was he going to protect Daisy from it all if he could barely keep afloat himself? Hell, it had been a trying experience just to sound calm on the phone whenever his family had called afterwards.

In retrospect, it probably had not been a good idea to try contacting them the night of, with the chatter of police in the background.

Weeks now. Weeks, and he was still as afraid as he had been that panicked, dreadful night. He could still touch the place where one of those weres had scraped his temple. He could still see the highs and lows of Mrs. Potosi in regards to her friend's conditions, in the murmurs of customers and employees whenever the incident was brought up. And the more Dawson thought about it, the more he realized: nowhere was safe anymore. The whole damn city was infected with bullshit, and now he was stuck in it.

Coping mechanisms. Don't. You've been very good about it. Don't start now. Chocolate is good. It's cheaper for sure, it tastes good, just eat it quick so it doesn't sticky pads covering the blood on his hands, the plastic or paper or whatever it was that counted--

On his payroll, he shouldn't, but he did. Dawson ambled to a less populated bar, and he ordered several shots of whiskey, and he spent the rest of his evening in a haze. A well-earned break from reality as far as he was concerned, a haze still but at least one that he had enacted.