For tennanttardis, who wanted an update!
Campbell didn't leave the studio until long after the other two. Despite his apparent lack of concern for Bethy, he really did want to help her, but he wanted to do it his own way.
After locking up and pocketing the key to return to the nurse, he went over to sit next to Bethy, who was sitting in the same chair. Campbell was amazed that she was still there; he knew he could never stay in one place for so long, but he supposed that was the manic in him. She was almost done with her book, though, whatever it was.
Bethy didn't notice when Campbell sat down a few chairs away from her, and she jumped when he nervously cleared his throat. He flashed her a smile as she looked at him warily. She must have decided he wasn't a threat, though, as she soon went back to her book.
Campbell tapped his feet, chaffing at the inaction but not wanting to frighten her away. He finally could stand it no longer.
"So," she started again, slightly, but Campbell pressed on, "what're ya readin'?" She glanced at him again before marking her page and holding it out to him. He took it, careful not to touch her hand. "Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice," he read off the cover. "This one yer favorite?" She nodded. "Me, I like Hamlet; ya know: 'To be or not to be' and all that stuff? They usually don't let Shakespeare in here though; think it's too depressing or somethin'. This one's a tragedy too, innit? How did you..?" But Campbell had over-stayed his welcome, and Bethy snatched her book back before hurrying away.
Early the next afternoon, Campbell was alone in his room, strumming idly on his guitar. A new plan to raise funds for the studio was simmering in his mnd, and the ideas seemed to ebb and flow along with the chords.
In the after-lunch lull of St. Jude's, Campbell was able to dimly perceive the soft sound of socks padding down the linoleum hall. He heard it approaching him, and glanced up from his instrument just as Bethy appeared in the doorway, a book clutched to her chest. She looked apprehensive, nervous, as if she wasn't sure if she was allowed to be there.
"Did'ja like it?" Campbell asked, flashing her his winning smile in an attempt to put her at ease. "I'm thinkin' of writin' a song for the station. Maybe sell it to a record company to raise some money, ya know?'
Bethy just blinked solemnly. Campbell continued doing what he was good at: talking.
"I've got this idea; it's sort of crazy, but maybe something about words an' music an' how they give people a voice...well, it makes sense to me, anyway."
Campbell couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw one corner of Bethy's mouth twitch as, at these words, she slipped a black pen out from behind her ear, plopped down on the floor, and began ruffling through the pages of her book, clearly looking for something.
Campbell watched in rapt wonder as she finally circled a passage heavily, closed the book, and stuck the pen back behind her ear. His curious eyes followed her as she placed the, still unknown, book facedown on his bedside table before bolting, again, like a scared rabbit.
The young man waiting until he could no longer detect her feet scuffling down the corridor before lunging for the book. Hastily turning it over, he saw the title.
Hamlet.
It was his turn to shuffle though the pages of the play, which looked as if it hadn't been read since it was first written. He located the passage at last, the annotation dark but surprisingly neat:
"Words, words, words..."