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--donation bonus (day #8, post 2/5)--
Hector couldn’t make the thoughts explicit, for fear of waking up Garovel, but the ideas still brewed quietly in his mind, never forming conscious words but still unsettling him nonetheless.

He didn’t want to think ill of his parents. They’d taken care of him his entire life. They’d kept a roof over his head, clothes on his back, food in his stomach. They’d given him toys and games and books, his own television, his own computer. Maybe that wasn’t much to some people, but he knew that to others, that was a lot.

And they had never been abusive, which was more than could be said of other people’s parents. He’d seen kids with parents like that. Those were the kids who had it rough, not him, and they endured their pain much better than he did. Surely, they’d love to have parents like his.

He rode the bike to a cemetery and parked it behind a mausoleum, under the shade of a line of trees. He checked inside the building, its stony walls encasing two chambers across, and was a bit surprised to still find the money that he had stolen from Rofal. He fully expected someone to have taken it after two whole weeks, but he supposed this place was an even better hiding spot than he thought. It was dark and peaceful inside, but Garovel had previously given him grief for choosing it, as if he had been trying to make some morbid joke, even though, really, it was a very convenient location.

From here, he made the short walk back to Cedar Street. Seeing his house again, under the amber pull of the evening sun, brought a sense of relief. If nothing else, he was at least glad to have finally made it.

He entered and found his father sitting alone in the den, watching television.