“You’re burning up.”
Fidds heard the words but he couldn’t comprehend them or why he was concerned by that…
All at once he forgot again where he was and who he had been so eager to confront just moments ago.
“Hey…” the man called again grabbing his shoulders tighter, “Don’t die in my gift shop! No, don’t…”
He heard a loud growl of annoyance as everything faded to black for him.
Fiddleford came to feeling more comfortable then he had in a very long time despite the heat still burning his skin and pain making it hard for him to open his eyes.
“Ya alive?” someone grunted beside him making him curl tight on his side, bracing himself for whatever this stranger might do.
“You have been out for a few hours,” he said in a voice devoid of compassion and holding that ounce of annoyance Fidds had grown used to, “Mumbling about how ya want me to please shut ‘it’ down.”
“Not you,” Fidds whispered eyes tightening, “Stanford.”
“I am —”
“No,” he whispered firmly making the man beside him tense, “Ya ain’t Stanford. Stanford has six fingers…”
“How do you know that?” the stranger hissed at him grabbing him by the shoulders tightly, making him tense and shake more.
“No…yer not him…yer that monster…” he hissed clinging to his head letting a sob escape curling tighter into the bed.
“Yer not Stanford…” he continued to gasp between sobs before he found himself fading into the darkness once more.
(I don’t know what I’m doing, if you want more, just ask! I’ll try to make some more later.)