Several hours later, it appeared that even the percussionists were too tired to keep up their insistent drumming, for, finally, there was silence. Firefly's expression of relief was so amusing that I might have laughed out loud had I not wanted to be the next recipient of his so-called death glare.

Wren had fallen asleep on the seat directly across from me, and was curled up in a ball, using the cloth of her flag as a pillow.

Many others besides Wren also slept, and since it was 3 o'clock in the morning, I felt that their sleep was justified. The majority of the percussionists slept now, including the blue-haired boy who had laughed when Neal had hit his head upon the ceiling was sleeping, hugging his drumsticks tightly. Skink also slept, his head resting upon his soft-sided trumpet case, his neck still slightly red from Neal holding him in a strangle hold. Neal was dozing now too, half slipping off of his seat in his sleep.

Moss was still awake, his eyes glinting in the streetlight lit darkness, and tear-tracks shining brightly upon his cheeks. His eyes shifted and met mine as I was watching him, and a sad smile appeared upon his face. Embarrassed to be seen watching, I quickly broke my gaze and looked away.

When I next chanced a glimpse toward him, his eyes were closed, and his head was leaning against his seat, he was sleeping.

Seeing him cry had confused me, because I could not figure out why. It didn't matter that I had just met him the day before, or that I hardly knew him, it bothered me that I could do nothing to help him. It wasn't that I wouldn't do anything, but rather that I couldn't; the unwritten laws of today's society wouldn't permit me to. They basically dictated that men (and boys) weren't allowed to cry, and if they did no one was allowed to do anything to help or comfort them. Oh how I now hated those laws.

With these thoughts, and many others like them embedded deep into my mind, I fell into a deep and restless sleep.