Ronan drifted in and out of consciousness.
Sometimes he opened his eyes and stared at the stained ceiling above him, and sometimes darkness swallowed him again before he could even understand where he was. His mind floated somewhere between waking and sleeping, and the pain in his shoulder dragged him back each time he slipped too far.
He did not know how long he had remained inside the janitor's office.
His body had turned pale and his lips blue.
The blood covering him had dried into stiff patches across his clothes and skin, and the smell had turned sour and rotten. Even breathing near himself made his stomach twist, but he did not dare wipe any of it away. That blood had kept the infected from noticing him before, and it might still be the only reason he remained alive.
