Part 2: Your colour's fading, 'cause I kept you waiting

"Tim, you have to keep talking to us," says Rachel, panting a little. Sweat is making her clothes stick to her skin. She shines Raylan's penlight back in his direction, concerned at the time Tim's eyes stay closed between blinks. They need him to stay awake but sitting with him takes away a set of hands from digging they can ill afford to lose.

Grimacing Tim asks, "Why am I the one that has to provide all the entertainment? I'm sure Raylan has far more interesting stories. And I know you have some youthful exploits to share, Rachel."

"Well, Tim," says Raylan, pausing in his work, "I'm trying to dig us out of here. If you'd like to trade jobs."

"Drag me over there. I'll dig. I'd love to dig," says Tim. It would have to be better than lying here, useless, forced to be the center of attention because somehow the measure of success if determined by whether he can keep from falling asleep in a deep dark hole.

"Don't tempt me." Raylan lets out a huff of breath and gets back to work.

"You're concussed, Tim. And we can't have you falling asleep. The best thing is for you to keep talking. Doesn't matter about what," says Rachel.

It's the vulnerability in Rachel's voice that gets him; the cleverly disguised plea dressed up as casual facts. "Oh, alright," sighs Tim, voice tight. He doesn't say anything else though.

"Tim," says Rachel, a little firmer.

"What do you want to hear? I offered to do the Dolly Parton version of the bodyguard song, but Raylan shot me down."

Raylan rolls his eyes. Only Tim could make having to make conversation sound like a punishment. "You learn how to carry a tune since then?"

"Nope," Tim declares, rolling the word around in his mouth longer than necessary until it pops.

"How about a story from when you were young," Raylan suggests, mildly curious. "Tim Gutterson, the precocious scamp: volume one."

"Now there's an idea," agrees Rachel. She doesn't particularly care what Tim graces them with, just as long as he stays awake until they can get him medical attention. She'll listen to him recite the alphabet all day if that's all he has in him.

"The situation is already depressing enough, we don… don't need to add horror stories to the mix. This ain't summer camp," Tim protests. He makes a face of disgust, like it's just occurred to him what he's said. Clearly his frontal lobe contains the filter portion of his brain because he would never be as forthright about what's on his mind as he's being.

"I bet you were a cute kid," spurs Rachel, trying to keep Tim from slipping back into silence or something darker.

"I'm still cute," he protests with a pout. He takes a deep breath, shoulders rising and then deflating. "I'll tell you about the summer I spent in backwoods nowhere USA when I was twelve. I got shipped out to my aunt's for the summer. Don't know whose idea it was- dad's to get rid of me, mom's to spare me from dad, or my aunt's to spare all of us." Tim frowns like he's still trying to actively figure that part of the story out.

"Anyways, she lives in this rundown cabin out on some property that used to belong to the family, like hundreds of years sort of thing. There used to be a town there, now it's all decaying lumber and dilapidated remains of buildings and few cabins in the woods belonging to people that can't move on and can't take a hint. It was a shitty summer," he says with condemnation. "She had a sister who passed away years before, but the sister had been married to a real selfish asshole. He didn't beat her or nothing, but he cheated, stole everything from her in like the most underhanded shitty way possible. They had divorced a few years before the sister's passing."

Tim takes a deep breath. "I mean, this guy is a real piece of shit. She was dying of cancer, and he was dumb and selfish enough to crawl into that hospital room and complain to her about how life had been treating him, how he wasn't doing well. Who the fuck does that?"

Raylan and Rachel don't answer, and Tim continues on like he doesn't expect them to. "Anyways, my aunt's sister passed, and she was cremated, and her ashes spread in the corner of the cemetery up the hill from my aunt's cabin in what's deemed 'our family plot.' Five years later during the summer I stayed there, my aunt wakes me up in the middle of the night and has me drive her up to the cemetery."

"Wait, you drove her? Didn't you say you were twelve?" asks Rachel incredulously.

"We're not talking a major metropolitan city here," replies Tim, with a look that says he can't find the fault in his story or his aunt's logic. "We're talking a place where a road is classified as a space wide enough for a vehicle to pass between trees. It's not like I was going to get pulled over or hit anything other than a squirrel."

Shaking her head, Rachel mutters, "How you boys ever made it to adulthood is beyond me."

"I often wonder that myself," adds Raylan.

Tim continues, "We make it there just as dawn breaks and she asks me to carry this box out of the back of the truck and up the last stretch of hill to the cemetery proper. This place is so old it's classified as a historical site, so there's a restroom and information plaque at the bottom of the hill for the tourists." He pauses, letting his head lean back against the wall he's propped up against.

"Tim?" asks Rachel gently, wondering if exhaustion is getting the better of him or the story is messing with his head.

Tim waves her off. "We stand there, paying our respects to a nice, sweet lady I only ever met once or twice, when my aunt tells me the bastard ex died. Their kids were divided on the whole affair. The daughter never speaking to the dad again and the loser son siding with the dad. I guess the son thought it was a good idea to lay the dad to rest in the family plot because there were fresh ashes scattered around the tree." A fond glint comes to Tim's eyes as a ghost of a smile flickers across his paling lips. "My aunt insisted there was no way in hell that bastard was going to rest in the same place as her sister- only those worthy get the family plot. She had me open the box and you know what was in it?"

This time Tim does pause like he expects an answer.

Raylan figures he'll take the bait; Rachel looking a little too afraid to postulate. "Was it somebody's head, Tim?"

"That would have been neat," chuckles Tim. The cold blue light of the flashlight makes him look a little manic.

"What was in the box, Tim?"

"A god damn dust buster," he says with a chuckle. "She brought a vacuum to the cemetery to suck up his ashes. And she did, every last speck. The coup de grace, she dumped the dust bin out down the outhouse shitter before we left."

Raylan laughs. He can't help himself. Despite the absurdity of the story, he can picture several Harlan acquaintances pulling the same thing. Rachel looks a bit more mortified for a second, but the laughter is infections and soon she's chucking too.

"I don't like onions," says Tim in a rather abrupt turn from his story, but continues like it makes perfect sense to him. "But I love onion rings. That's not right."

"No one ever accused you of being right," says Raylan with a chuckle. He's gone out drinking with Tim before, seen the man drunk but never blind drunk. He imagines this must be what that's like; Tim so quiet and reserved all the time, all those thoughts and stories just pinging around his head with no release that when the tap is finally turned, they all just come tumbling out at once. If it weren't for the dire circumstances, he thinks he might enjoy a Tim like this.

"Yeah," agrees Tim like Raylan has just offered some sage advice. "You know that fake grape flavor taste? You know, that tastes like purple?"

Rachel hesitantly agrees, "Yeah." She looks a little more perturbed by the abrupt change in topic than Raylan does. Like it's the biggest red flag of their whole messed up situation.

The dopey smile is back on Tim's face. "I love it." He tags on a little giggle like he's happily drunk.

"You would," says Raylan. "Probably into bubble-gum too."

"Says the guy who eats ice-cream for breakfast," Tim scoffs.

"Should we be worried about carbon monoxide poisoning?" asks Rachel real loud, to be heard over Tim.

It gives Rayan pause for a moment. He watches Tim shiver, despite Rachel's jacket acting as a blanket. He holds his hand out, stepping closer to Tim and then he feels it, a cool breeze moving through the center of their spot. He follows it back towards the wall and though the mash up of boards and dirt, realizes it's probably the tunnel he was hoping would take them through the hill earlier behind that particular mess. "There's air moving here." He pulls one of the boards out of the pile waiting to see what kind of shifting might occur. The way was boarded up before but now after the collapse, they might be able to access it. If a breeze can get through, maybe they can. "We need to dig here," he says, dropping to his knees and scooping dirt out of the way.

Rachel comes over and joins him. Raylan glances over at her as her stomach growls giving away just how late in the day it is. "We should probably stop talking about food," she suggests. Not that artificial grape flavoring and onion rings really counts as food.

"Penty- pleny, plenty of power bars," slurs Tim. "One of us foresaw this being a disaster."

Raylan wipes at his brow. "Yeah? You got the touch, there Tim? Prophesized us getting trapped in a mine this morning?"

"Do I look like a millionaire? If I had any insight in the future…" He lets the statement hang, eyes looking dazed as his head tips forward.

"Tim," snaps Raylan and Tim's head shots up, a pained look on his face at the quick motion.

"I concluded that a trip to the middle of nowhere in backwards Harlan with none other than Haran's prodigal child, equated to bringing rations to bunker down somewhere with," says Tim, far more eloquently and coherent than he's sounded in the last hour. It sounds wrong though, like he's reporting facts to an inquiry board or giving name, rank and serial number. He waves his hand around. "The mine is just a bonus I guess."

"Now you can say you had the whole Harlan experience." Raylan looks at Rachel and tips his head towards Tim.

She nods silently putting down the broken piece of timber she's been working free and goes to sit next to Tim. A smile greets her as she quietly places her fingers against the pulse in Tim's neck and counts. She takes the cap off a bottle of water and presses it into Tim's hands with a stern, "Drink that." A power bar is next, ripping open the crinkling packaging and breaking it in half. She takes a tentative bite out of one piece, handing the other to Tim.

"No," says Tim, stating to shake his head and quickly regretting it. He mentally chastises himself for the stupid movement that's obviously going to hurt and disrupt his equilibrium and can't figure out why he can't seem to remember to stop doing it.

"You need to eat," she chides.

Tim pulls at the denim around his leg wound. The blood is drying around the outer edges causing the skin to itch and pull. He licks his lips. "I'll just puke it back up," he confesses. It sounds broken, like it's a personal defect on his part. "That'll be worse. Speed up dehydration. With blood loss, that's a bad idea." It's also a waste of resources that would be far more beneficial to Rachel and Raylan.

Rachel frowns but decides not to push the issue. She waits until Tim has drunk a couple of swallows before taking the bottle out of his hands before he drops it. Tim's hands are normally sure and steady, handling his weapon with envious proficiency but now he's struggling to keep a plastic bottle upright. Tim shivers, so Rachel pulls her coat up higher on his chest. She takes her own drink from the bottle, before bringing it over to Raylan.

Raylan pauses in his digging to gratefully take the water.

"He's fading," she whispers. "Neither wound has completely stopped bleeding. They're both still weeping. And his pupils are very unfocused."

Raylan nods grimly.

"You want to know somethin'," says Tim, eyes a little distant. He's been alternating between babbling nonsensical statements and silence for awhile. He's been especially flagging since the story about the aunt.

"What's that?" asks Raylan, falling back on his ass to take a break from the constant digging with his hands. Wiping at his sweaty forehead with his hand just smears dirt across it. He's panting and starting to ache from the constant exertion.

Tim shakes his head a little and quickly stops, his face screwing up in pain. "I don't know how to whistle."

Rachel lets out a little whistle as she puts the rock in her hands down. She looks over at Tim, then at Raylan slightly concerned. Raylan catches the look out of the corner of his eye but gives a little bird call sounding whistle that makes a tiny portion of Tim's bottom lip curl on the right side. It's clear Tim's stretched thin but letting panic creep in isn't going to do Tim any good nor help them get him out any faster.

"See that's weird," Tim adds with a small frown, looking like he's been mulling it over for quite some time. Raylan's unsure if he means not knowing how to whistle, that Raylan can do a bird call or if Tim's concussed brain has moved on to something else entirely. "Whenever you say you can't whistle, the people who can, automatically start whistlin', like it's some innate thing or any dumbass can do it," he complains, his words slurring slightly.

"Guess they just want to demonstrate that it's something that can be learned through a variety of methods," suggests Rachel, working at grabbing another rock. "Or maybe something Pavlovian."

Tim looks sullen. "Showin' off most likely." That elicits a little smile out of Raylan. "It's not like when people say they can't shoot or hit a target or get a bullseye, I just pull my gun out and pop someone." Tim raises his hand, forming a gun and mimes shooting something. "Just to say, hey I can do it, you should be able to too, asshole."

"It's one of life's many injustices," laments Raylan. Normally he'd be worried at what Tim's letting fall out of his mouth, especially given the blow to the head, but since they're not getting out anytime soon, he's just grateful Tim's semi-coherent enough to say anything. Loose lipped Tim is the biggest indicator he has a serious head injury- no doctor diagnosis required.

Tim makes a weird clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth as though he agrees with Raylan's assessment of the situation. "It's just weird."

Rachel frees a decent size rock from the mound, rolling it easily enough out towards their discarded rubble pile. Her hand reaches out to pull the next piece out when the hill starts to rumble and groan, a large plume of dust pouring out of the air tunnel they've been enlarging.

"Look out!" shouts Raylan, pulling Rachel back and throwing himself on top of her.

The action is brief, like the final gasp of a dying animal. There's enough dust in the air to rip a cough out of both Raylan and Rachel, painting the inside of their throats and mapping out all the trails of sweat running down their necks.. Rachel's all elbows poking at Raylan in a slight panic, who rolls off of her quickly, relieved nothing of substance has come down on them this time.

"Tim?" calls Raylan, getting to his feet and brushing himself off before helping Rachel to her feet. "You good?"

Rachel nods her head before snapping it towards Tim. The air is thick with settling dust, when set against the backdrop of the blueish flashlight light makes it look like a snowstorm. It settles in Tim's hair coating the strands already matted with blood.

"Peachy," gasps Tim, giving a half-hearted thumbs up despite being slumped over to the right at an uncomfortable angle.

"Jesus, Tim," says Rachel, moving over to help prop him back up. Slowly she lifts him back into position, a painful hiss coming out of Tim. His head falls heavy on her shoulder, trembling, and she stays there for a moment to give him time to collect himself. Her hands brush over his face and shoulder looking for anymore injuries that may have befallen him. "Are you okay?" she asks in that tone Tim always associates with dealing with frightened children and animals.

Tim yanks his head away, regretting it immediately as his vision swims and his stomach rolls. "I'm 'ine," he snaps. Damn, doesn't he hate being a burden to start with. It especially burns when all their lives are on the line, and he can't do jack shit to help. He doesn't need Rachel or even Raylan pitying him. He can take a bullet and die here like a man without the coddling, thank you.

Rachel just waits out Tim's scowl before wetting a strip of fabric with a dash of water and washing away the new dirt and grim from Tim's face. "You don't want it to get infected," she advises when Tim tries to pull his face away.

"You already bandaged it," he reminds, hoping hard eye contact will get Rachel to stop fussing.

"Still need to keep the area clean." That's all Tim needs is start a low grade fever to add to his problems.

Tim doubts that's going to be a problem in his foreseeable future. No doubt Raylan and Rachel will do their level best to get them all out of this dank dark level of hell Dante forgot to include his poem. The gunshot wound alone is problematic to his long-term survival here, the concussion's going to be what does him in. He's never been so tired in his whole life and isn't that saying something when he's spent four days watching a target in inhospitable conditions.

There's irony in there somewhere too. Sleep and Tim have a love hate relationship that at best is listed at complicated. He spends his time avoiding a full night's sleep just so he doesn't have to ride out nightmares. It's where his friends Johnny Walker and Jim Bean come in, the grease the wheels between him and sleep. He abhors it while desperately coveting it. Now, he's so achingly tired there's no way the nightmares could touch him and all he has to do is give in to what will probably be the best sleep of his life. It will be the last sleep of his life and there's the rub. The one time he wants to take comfort in sleep's sweet embrace, he can't do it.

Raylan uncovers the penlight buried under the newest skiff of dust and shines it at the tunnel they've been trying to excavate. "We'll looky here," he says, hoping to head off the tension building between Tim and Rachel before Tim's loose tongue loosens on Rachel by mistake. They both turn to where Raylan is shining the light. Instead of hitting rock and dirt it disappears through a hole.