Prologue.
George leant over the bed where Mitchell lay, eyes closed, covered up to his chest where his arms lay, right one bound elbow to wrist in bandages. He was paler than even normal, covered in a sheen of sweat. He breathed hard, eyes flickering under the lids but not awakening, and the werewolf bit his lip, forcing back tears as he stared at his friend. He was scruffy himself; he looked like he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, and his eyes were dark from tiredness. His shirt was scrunched up and he wore jogging bottoms, the table he was sat next to covered in rings from old tea.
Annie appeared with a faint popping noise, looking at George with sad eyes, then letting them trail down to Mitchell. She swallowed and George looked up; his hands took the warm mug from her hands and he blew on it gently, "Thanks, Annie." He mumbled softly and she gave him a fleeting smile. "Come have some dinner, George." She said softly, laying her faint hand on his shoulder. "You need to eat." Her voice was heavy with concern, for him and for Mitchell. But George shook his head, "I have to be here when he wakes up. This is all my fault."