Lawrence wondered at the words for the hundredth time. Trust him. Trust Christy. He’d trust him with his life. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Sometimes it felt as though Christy was dragging him back into the land of the living a piece at a time. Making him feel again, making him care. When he looked back over the last six months of his life he had gone from not giving a damn about anything, not caring about anyone, least of all himself, to this perpetual state of interest and anticipation. Anticipation at what Christy would do or say next. All because a slip of a lad wandered into his shop looking hungry and desperately in need of a friend and a purpose.
His chest hurt and he rubbed at it whilst watching Christy stitch covers quickly and place them over the old, battered chairs
