He went out the next day.
They’d left fifty pounds and an emergency credit card on the counter for him. Stefan took the card. Drug dealers didn’t take cards. And anyway, he was going into the city centre, not to Roundhay Road or Harehills.
He had woken up feeling—thanks to the music—better.
He was doing better. Day three, he’d been a mess, the last time. When he’d run away. Day three, this time around, he felt…good.
The cuff on his thigh, the belt tightening around his waist at eight thirty, the tiny light of the tracker on the lock—they were coming back, and he was doing better. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t isolated. He was simply alone.
And if he could do this, do well without them, then…Daz would start to trust him again.
Properly.
So, quite suddenly, Stefan had something to prove
