“I don’t get it.”
I was sitting at the kitchen table with Aumae and Damien later that night. The owner, whose name was Kent Ocean and that Kellan had moved to the basement without telling anyone, sat with us. He was cradling a mug of hot tea between his hands, clenched with white knuckles and shaking arms. Aumae brought him out of the basement and coaxed him to sit with us. He hadn’t been tied up or anything. There’d been nothing keeping him down there, except pure fear. When he realized Kellan wasn’t with us, he noticeably relaxed, but he was still cautious and every now and then, like just now, his arms began shaking. He couldn’t seem to control them, but he offered a trepid apology, “So sorry. So sorry.” He kept repeating those words until Aumae reassured him enough times that we weren
