We're nearly finished, ladies and gentlemen—just a few more.
On an interesting side note—Wilson's pressure cooker story from the previous chapter is 100% true; it just happened to happen to my grandmother. And yes, that ham is still missing to this day.
Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment
Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann
"Wilson? Wilson? Wake up already!"
Wilson came to, vaguely aware of being on the floor with his face throbbing painfully. "What happened?" he slurred.
"Tom hit you," Willow clarified, dabbing at his face with a towel full of ice.
Ah, now he remembered. "Did he break my nose?"
"I just told you he hit you and you're worried about your nose?"
"I like my nose."
"No, but he blackened both eyes, if it makes you feel better."
Wilson rolled to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. It was coming back to him now….
"Where's Tom?" Wilson asked, glancing around. Ow, that hurt.
"Gone."
"He left?"
"I made him leave."
"You made him?"
In response, Willow flicked her lighter. "I can be persuasive when I want to."
Wilson stared at her for a full beat before sitting up. "Ow." Something occurred to him upon seeing the ice in her hand. "Charlie. We have to get to Charlie before he does."
"Don't you think you ought to get to a doctor first? She is with Maxwell."
Wilson got to his feet and lurched towards the door.
"Right now," he hissed, for talking made his head ache. "I don't trust her safety to anyone else."
The taxi driver slowed after they crossed the bridge.
"Why are we stopping?" Wilson asked, removing the ice pack from his face. It wasn't doing much for the swelling—the lights were all fuzzy.
"Some sort of accident," the taxi driver said.
Wilson and Willow exchanged glances.
Within a moment, they were out of the taxi.
"Hey! You gotta pay your fare!" the driver yelled.
They ignored him—there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Willow made a strangled noise upon arrival at the gas station. Wilson vaguely recognized it as the gas station they had stopped at—this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.
"It's not Charlie, is it?" Wilson asked.
"No," Willow said, gripping Wilson's arm. "It's the gas-man's wife—she looks like she was hit by a car….What's Tom doing here?"
Alerted to his presence, Wilson heard Tom's grating voice.
"I know the man who did this—his name is Maxwell—"
"Wilson," Willow warned, tugging him back.
Wilson gritted his teeth, debating.
A few minutes later, they were back in the car.
"Oh, you're back," the driver said sardonically.
Wilson ignored him, instead handing him his wallet.
"You can keep this, leather and all, if you get us to East Egg on the double," Wilson told him.
As the driver sped off, Willow asked tentatively, "East Egg?"
"Charlie," Wilson answered.
They ground to a halt outside of the mansion where Charlie lived.
"Take her home," Wilson said to the driver, indicating Willow.
"Wilson," Willow said, getting ready to follow him out.
Wilson slammed the door in her face. "Go home, Miss Willow."
Willow looked hurt, he thought, but it was hard to tell in the dark with swollen eyelids. "Wilson, Charlie's my friend."
"And she's my cousin. Good night, Miss Willow."
He hit the roof of the taxi, prompting the driver to depart.
Wilson didn't look back.
He was never quite able to articulate what had prompted him to go around the side instead of the front—perhaps it was the disaster that was the whole day—but when he did, Wilson found that he wasn't the only one there in the dark.
"You," Wilson hissed, realizing he recognized the silhouette.
"Say, pal, you don't look so good," Maxwell observed, sounding strained.
Wilson was fairly certain he was trembling with rage. "You…you…you hit that woman—and you drove off?" he was making half-hearted gestures now, not quite able to articulate. "You—everyone was right about you! You are the worst piece of humanity I have ever had the misfortune to come across! Including Tom!" Maxwell winced, but Wilson continued. "What do you have to say for yourself!"
"I," Maxwell began. "It was dark—she just ran out, like she knew us—and sh—I reached—turned the wheel—"
His stammering—so unlike the Maxwell that Wilson was used to—made something click in Wilson's mind. "You…you weren't driving," Wilson realized.
He heard more than saw Maxwell grit his teeth. "Then…Charlie?" Wilson asked, aghast.
Maxwell's head was tilted now. "She thought it would calm her nerves if she drove—and then when…it happened, she panicked—and now she's worried about Tom coming back—"
"Understandable," Wilson muttered, touching his tender face.
"So I'm staying here to make sure she's all right."
They watched the window in silence for a moment.
"I'll go in there and check on her," Wilson announced.
"With the way you look? You'll scare her to death."
Wilson ignored him.
He had to see his cousin.
But when he did, it was to see that she wasn't alone.
Charlie was on the couch, sobbing, but so was Tom, with a hand on her shoulder, speaking in low tones, looking somber whenever she happened to glance up, but with a look of triumph when she wasn't.
Wilson raised a hand, ready to rap on the doorframe, to march in there, to denounce Tom, to get his cousin to safety….
But in that moment, Tom looked up.
There was something in that moment, when they locked eyes, that gave Wilson pause. A moment that convinced Wilson that—yes, even with Charlie there—his life would be forfeit if he stepped foot in that room.
And so, in a moment he regretted, he retreated.
And when he did, he had that moment on the couch burned indelibly into his brain.
"Well?"
Wilson paused, collecting himself. "She's…she's on the couch." He hesitated. "Tom's there."
Maxwell was quiet for a beat. "I take it you didn't get a chance to talk to her."
Wilson hung his head. "No."
Again, silence, then, "Go home, pal—I'll keep an eye on things here."
"She's my cousin—"
"And you're in no fit shape to help her. Trust me, I can take it from here."
Wilson hesitated, then sat down on the bench in the garden.
"I thought I told you to leave," Maxwell said, not turning around.
Wilson gave a wan smile.
"Well, you might need a second if things go south."