That night Allen didn't sleep. Sure, he was tired, and sure, he should have. Without a doubt, it would have certainly been healthier than popping a Mentat and staring at the stars all night, but he still didn't.
He was annoyed.
Life before the war wasn't perfect. He had issues to work through, and the war was more than just a news story to him, but it was his life to live. All that had been stripped away from him in what felt like a day.
In what felt like a day his world, his nation, the causes he believed in, the people he had known, had all been taken.
All that was left was Shaun, his son, his little big man.
He had a lead, but he had to wait - they were making him wait.
They were right though, running off half-cocked was going to get him killed.
But what did they know? This was his boy, what right did they have to stop him?
Except all the right in the world when they're, well, right.
Marion had once told Allen that waiting was the hardest thing to do, but when dropped behind enemy lines you can't just start shooting, you have to scout, gather intel, find your sea legs so to speak.
Marion had been right, Amari was right…if Allen just made a mad dash to the Institute he'd likely get himself killed.
That being said, the world wasn't safe in general - raiders, supermutants, deathclaws, particularly ambitious mole rats. So really, what was a little exhaustion on top of the pile? That's why God invented Mentats, to get soldiers through battle (and college students through exams), and if all that was left of his world was Shaun, then didn't he have the right to make that mad dash? Who could blame him?
Piper probably.
He should probably start trying to sleep. He had work to do. People to see, things to take of.
Preston was still waiting back at Sanctuary Hills; he had kind of left that offer to join to Minutemen hanging in the air.
All things considered, a group like the Minutemen would be good to have at his back if this rescue operation turned into a war.