Priscilla had no idea what she was doing.
She'd been going for a quick walk when she saw him – the boy she'd thought was dead, the boy she'd hurt. He wasn't alone, either, he was with five other boys. She was sure they were from the Walk as well, if their appearances were anything to go by. Either that or they were homeless.
And now she was sandwiched in-between two of them, giving directions to the ginger on how to get to her apartment. She was in the front, and it was uncomfortable, even with the one in the striped shirt giving her half of his seat.
Peter was in the back, with one of the other boys sleeping on him. She'd seen the looks Peter had given the boy. She recognized them. They were the kind of looks he used to give her.
The other two boys in the car, the small dark one and the big blond, she didn't have much of an opinion on. She didn't actually have much of an opinion on any of them except Peter.
The car ride was silent.
Once they got to her apartment, Priscilla ignored the looks people gave her. She'd gotten the same looks the day after Peter had staggered down, face bleeding and bruised. Now she was leading a group of battered, homeless-looking teenage boys up to her apartment.
People probably thought she was a sick person.