Harry didn't want to talk about it. So he didn't.

That day left them both haggard. They found some safety in a townhouse and took to separate levels to spend time apart. But before they did that, Harry had taken the bag off James again with the intent to go over what they had so far. James however did have a clause to relinquishing their collection: he wanted to continue reading. It was honored, though Harry mentioned that he really wanted to go through his old notes for himself, now, in case they'd help him remember something he forgot. The civilian had reluctantly agreed to it and they'd settled on 'later.'

Harry, again, found it kind of endearing that James had become possessive of his old notes.

A routine search of the bedroom he chose to camp out in turned up another map in the bedside table. It was far unlike the other two he carried. This map was expanded. The overhead view actually encompassed both sides of town and made it look far more realistic, like an actual place with tons of businesses, housing, offices, and schools. Harry studied the map for a long time, comparing it against the other two minimalistic ones. It was mind boggling; how funny to see Silent Hill like this, so welcoming and unassuming. He truly wanted to know what everyday life in this shitty town had been like and the type of people that made their home here. Regrettably (perhaps; was it regrettable?), he'd never get the chance to find out.

Harry stood and went to the muddled window to watch the snow. Midwich was their next target. The drawings found in the church didn't appear to depict the middle school, though it seemed like heading over there was the only logical thing to do. He'd been avoiding that place for as long as he could. After the church hijinks it felt like he was being pushed there now.

Ugh. The church; the town center. What a clusterfuck.

He shook his head and slowly paced the room. There was so much to process from today that it made his brain no better than clumpy mashed potatoes. What had helped him gain clarity during his first tryst with Silent Hill was writing everything down. (When he got home, he realized it was a valuable method to preserving some of his sanity, and so kept up the practice.) The notepad had a ton of free space. Harry really would have liked to review his story and even start keeping an updated archive. Maybe he'd luck out and find another one. Holding onto a grain of hope, Harry left the bedroom to scour the upstairs for anything that would be a fair substitute in the meantime.

He found a nursery. The aging father could only sigh; at every turn today there was something about a child. Children were his Achilles heel, and the town knew it. It was obviously meant to torment and wear him down, and it was doing a five-star job of it. Taking reluctant steps to the crib, he rested his hands on the white frame and looked down into a bed without a blanket.

There was a red notepad and a pen in the silver cone holder.

Because of course there was.

Trying not to allow his shameful memories to overtake him, he took the pad and then the pen into his left hand. The pages were entirely blank; this was a fresh start. Harry bounced the pen between his fingers, frowning down at it and then the crib. Finding the notepad just when he was wanting one in a place that was too specific to a reviled memory felt invasive. He didn't like the idea of Silent Hill actively reading his mind. Digging into his subconscious? Fine, whatever. That was business as usual. Sure, it was terrifying enough, as the hard proof showed; but the suggestion that he had a bug implanted in his head for a one-way frequency scared him a whole lot more.

He returned to the bedroom, and began to write.

Mason and Sunderland spent their remaining time apart. When the abyss outside shifted to grey, Harry packed up and went downstairs. James was seated in an easy chair in front of a powerless television. He got an odd feeling about it, like deja vu, and studied the back of his head.

Though peculiar, Harry brushed it off. It wasn't important. "Hey, champ. Ready to hit the road?"

James stood and turned around. "Yeah. Sure thing, chief."

He smiled as the pack changed hands. "Atta boy. By the way, I found another notepad. That one is not for you to read, alright? A guy's gotta have his own private journal every now and then."

Intrigue briefly narrowed James's eyes. "Okay. You did do something so I can tell the difference, right?"

"Yep. You'll know it when you see it."

James put his reading away. The new notepad had been tucked snug into a corner, missing its pen. That was an easy enough way to separate the two. He closed it up, adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, sorted out his jacket, then ran his fingers back through his hair. Harry's smile turned softer. He liked how his blond hair parted on the right and hung over his left brow. The look was youthful. It wasn't a topic to breach yet, but he still wanted to know just how young this guy was.

Maybe soon.

"I was thinking we'd go back to school," Harry said. "Midwich is near— oh! Shit, you should look at this." He dug into his jacket and showed James the updated map, holding it out to him unfolded. "Found this in the bedroom upstairs. How's that for trippy? It makes Silent Hill actually look like a livable town."

James frowned over it. "Yeah. Wow. That's way bigger than I expected."

"No kidding. With all the roads out last time and, well, this time so far, I never got a chance to see if there was anything else to this place. Kind of weird to have such a small map from the get-go, but ya know. Silent Hill."

"Silent Hill," James murmured. "If you found it, we'll need it."

"You bet."

Furrowing his brows, James pulled the map closer to his face to read. "There's a mall.. and a high school. .. Harry, this layout doesn't make sense."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, did you look at it?" Harry gave him a half-hearted grimace and shuffled beside him to look on. "You see that? That divider on Bachman isn't where it says it is," James pointed out. "And the street looks longer. Did you look this over?"

"Well, yeah," he replied, fishing out their main guide. He unfolded it, holding it above the other for better comparison. Lo and behold, James was right: there were more discrepancies than he'd originally noticed. Harry's shoulders sank in frustration. "Oh, come on.. I looked at these side by side," he complained. "There's no way I could've missed that."

"Except that you did." James ignored the glare, and they fell into a short silence. "Yeah, that's.. weird," he mumbled after a spell. "I wonder how this changes things."

"Well, James, I've got some great news for you," Harry said, taking both maps back and filing them into his inner pocket. "We're gonna have to personally find out."

The conduit shook his head. With his hand on the front door knob, Harry cast a grin over his shoulder at him. "Makes you wish you were still cooped up in South Vale, huh?"

"No." The knob rattled. Then rattled again. "Yes."

He sighed hard. "Well, alright. Sure. Why not. We'll leave through the back." Harry faced his guardian with a bright, forced smile. "Hey, James! You wanna go through the back yard this time? I think we could do for a little change of pace."

Nothing could be said with words that couldn't be said better with his face, so James rolled his eyes upward and followed.

The backyard took them to the alley. As they wandered down the concrete trail, Harry picked up a new song to hum and absently utter under his breath. James eyeballed him. "You've been singing a lot lately."

He raised his brows and carefully studied his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Harry gently squinted at him. James's tone already told him where this was going. "I didn't really notice. Is it obnoxious?"

"Yeah. A little."

"Want me to put a lid on it?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He shrugged his acceptance. "You got it. I'll keep it in mind."

James looked ahead. Though he kept his disappointment hidden, Harry's heart pulsed dejectedly in his chest. He looked down and away.

It'd been a really shitty 24 hours.

They hadn't gotten far, only a street over when a deep rumble beneath the road rose to the surface. With it came proliferating tremors that violently shook the ground and cracked the asphalt underfoot, compelling them to leap back and try to brace themselves on earth that wanted to throw them off. The growl of the road splitting where they'd just stood had the men watching - one incredulous, the other gobsmacked - as the road tore itself in half like a demonic maw. When the earthquake ended, the two men stood there dumb and done. James meandered over and looked down into the deep crack.

"Are you fucking..?" Harry slammed his palm into his forehead and pushed it hard back over his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest, then let his arm collapse to his side. Everything was going wrong at every turn and he was barely hanging on by a splinter. As he drew up his head and straightened his spine, Harry accepted the murky disconnect settling over him - a product of his own mind trying to save itself - and stared dully at James's back.

The resident looked over his shoulder at him. "Ever seen that before?"

"Nope."

He squinted over a light frown. Harry's eyes looked strange. There was an emotional absence in them, and he looked older the way that his lids were settled at half mast and his face blank. It was eerie, and he didn't like that version of Harry, whatever it was. James chose to overlook it. Taking another gander down into the earth, he idly wondered what they should do next, then turned his head when Harry's feet scuffed the ground.

James caught up with him. The energy in Harry had changed since they'd left the town center. Right now Harry was feeding him the negativity he needed, but to feel energized when he ought to feel drained made him worry about what it meant for him. In the last day it'd ebbed and flowed between dismal and exuberant, empowering and weakening James like he was running on a faulty treadmill. Harry obviously had no idea what irreparable harm he was doing to a conduit long overdue for a squeeze.

What happened to all his therapy mumbo jumbo about "coping" and getting over it? All of this was making him tick, but James couldn't find anything to say to weasel the author into talking. The man beside him was irritating when he blabbered and irritating when he was solemn. He eyeballed Harry for a moment. There was just no winning with this guy.

If Harry would snap out of whatever was going on, he'd be grateful.

On the other side of the coin, James was sucking Harry dry. His body felt like a human-sized sack of wet sand. The fog and snow barely registered before his eyes; his psyche was fragile; and he had to keep going. Harry Mason had to keep going because he had to find his daughter and take her home.

The snow that never melted nor piled on inches crunched under their feet. There was no conversation as they wandered, the town still and the trampled snow the only sound.

Not even a third of the way to Midwich they came across another cracked road. It forced them to consult the map for a detour. In that moment of distraction, gurgling and gravely moaning came from the low clouds. Three familiar faces came to say hello, and the two took action. The pipe cracked bones and the booms of gunfire induced screams. The fight would be easy - or would have been easy, but before the last went down, four others came to join the party. Then three. Then three more.

This was the biggest pack they'd faced yet. Harry started strong, and understandably so, since they expected to battle only the first trio and be done with it. With more numbers trickling in, he was getting tired faster and faster; the infestation of emotional fatigue was too great. James had to manage the brunt of the work, firing round after round; reload, fire, rinse, repeat.

They just kept coming. Gasping for breath, his arms sore and legs burning, Harry backed up to James and tugged on the backpack. "Gun," he demanded weakly, and dropped to one knee when James practically threw it off. Rushing to find the firearm was mentally taxing and when he did, he had to take an extra handful of seconds for a break. Getting to his feet made his knees crack and head swim, and though he didn't feel all too present, he took aim and joined the barrage of popping bullets.

But they still. Kept. Coming.

Harry's arms sagged, feeling as heavy as 75 pound weights dangling from his shoulders. "I can't do this, James," he told him raggedly. "I can't do this right now. We gotta run for it. Reload," he ordered, zipping up the backpack and fighting to tug it on. It was uncomfortable and clumsy over a jacket too big, and he tried to make it work long enough for their escape. He shoved the pipe under his arm. "We need to get out of here. Right now."

There was no room for argument - not even the very obvious question of how? - for Harry was already moving out. James fired away over the short bursts from the handgun as they wove and pushed through the throng. When his shells were depleted he made do using the shotgun as a club. They thankfully emerged unscathed, for the most part, and ran until Harry's legs forced him to stop. Panting hard, he looked around at the townhouses on this street and trudged achingly up steps to find an open door. He slogged inside, shook the backpack off, and dumped it in a chair. James closed the door and meandered after him, watching Harry pick through and get the new notepad out.

"I'm done for the day," he listlessly informed James. "I'm sorry. I just can't fucking do this right now. We'll pick up again tomorrow."

Harry passed his companion and clung to the railing as he went upstairs. James remained at the foot and watched him disappear into the hall; a door opened and closed. After a long moment he let out a terse sigh and looked around. That was that. He removed the pack from the easy chair and sat down to wait.

In the loneliness of another plain, dusty bedroom, Harry tossed the notepad onto the bed and collapsed onto the edge of the mattress. His elbows met his knees and his face dropped into his hands. He began to cry out all the torture and exhaustion of a broken head and body into the palms of a man that hated how he could've ended this nightmare long ago, if only he'd followed through and wrung her tiny neck lifeless.