Mr Graves heals his hands, heals his back, heals his legs. He takes him to diners and repairs his clothes with a swish of his wand. When Credence still has a quarter-stack of pamphlets in his grip and the shadows of the skyscrapers shroud the streets, Mr Graves appears with a swirl of misplaced air to take them from him so Credence won’t get into trouble.
“Please,” Mr Graves begs one night, as he runs the tip of his wand along the rungs of Credence’s ribs, “Come with me. If she does this again – if I couldn’t get here in time – “
The waist of Credence’s trousers is sodden with his blood.