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It is a frugal breakfast, of course; bread with some jam and a glass of orange juice. Henry explains that he bought these from a local store earlier today, while on his way back from Hawkins' library.
"I asked the store clerk for directions, and it turns out the library is just a couple blocks away."
Eleven frowns as she chews. Henry smiles placidly, fully aware that his explanation has only raised more questions than it answered, but refusing to elaborate unless she asks. So, she does:
"Why did you go… to the library?"
Henry puts an elbow on the table and rests his chin upon his hand.
"Remember I told you I'd go visit my father?" Eleven nods. "Well, I needed to figure out his whereabouts… I was aware he had been incarcerated, but where? At the library, I did a little bit of research to find that out."
"So… will you go visit… him?"
"Aha." Henry's tone is casual, as if he is talking about a usual chore; he does not show any hint of unease about confronting his last surviving victim. "I'm about to head there."
Eleven knows it can't be that simple, that surely not every place can be within walking distance from where they are, that a prison will surely be heavily guarded, especially one with dangerous inmates.
She of all people should know.
Her train of thought vanishes as Henry places his index finger against her forehead, playfully trying to smooth the tiny worry lines that are showing there.
"Hey, sleepyhead, you just woke up. Let me handle this, ok? Just trust me."
Eleven lowers her gaze, ashamed: what could she even help him with, really? Yes, she had freed him from the soteria, but beyond that…
Henry seems to be perfectly able to look after himself.
"Eleven." His voice a bit more serious now. "I'm in no way implying that your help is unappreciated. You know that, right? Look at me," he insists, and she does. "No, this is just something I must handle on my own.
"And it'd greatly ease my mind knowing that, while I tie up these loose ends, you are safely hidden here. Is that clear?"
To that Eleven cannot object.
"Remember: do not leave the house. If anyone comes calling, stay quiet and hide," Henry instructs her some twenty minutes later as they stand before the front door, its tinted glass bending the light to draw a rose over the parquet floor.
Eleven nods in agreement. Henry offers her a smile and is just about to turn the doorknob when…
"Henry."
He laughs under his breath before turning back to face her again. "You surely like calling me as I'm about to leave, don't you think?"
Eleven ignores the comment; instead, she asks: "Won't you be… hungry?" She hasn't seen him eat since their escape.
"Oh, I ate a sandwich back at the store," Henry assures her. Then, he places a hand over her cheek. "It's very nice of you to worry about me, but I'll be fine.
"Now, be a good girl and wait for me."
Henry waits in front of the store he had visited earlier.
As any good predator, he bides his time.
Waiting for the right prey.
When a young man of twenty-five at most parks his car in front of the building, Henry gestures at him. The man lifts his eyes.
He opens the passenger door for him.
Henry smiles, sits comfortably, and closes the door.
The car drives away.
Something as harmless as a free ride does not register on the big picture; at most, the young man will be unable to tell what went through his head as he made a lengthy detour on his way to the store to drive a complete stranger to a psychiatric ward.
During the quiet drive, Henry thinks of Eleven, dwelling on the question she had asked the night before.
What would I have done?, he wonders. Would I have murdered her?
Henry believes he could have. It is not a certainty, no, not in the least, but if he had been in a tight spot… If, for example, Eleven had refused, that would have been one thing: he could have tried convincing her or, in the worst case scenario, he would have had to erase her memories of him. Maybe he would have been able to abduct her?
Now, if she hadn't just refused him, but also tried to act against him…
If she had attacked him…
Then, Henry, the consummate survivor, would have been left with no choice but to eliminate the threat on his life.
But that did not happen, he tells himself. No, she made the right choice.
He knows for a fact that, had Eleven made the wrong choice, it would have only ended in pain for both of them.
He comes out of his reverie as the psych ward comes up in the distance. It's an old but well-preserved building.
He inclines his head, still deep in thought.
With any luck, he will obtain the family fortune, and he and Eleven won't want for anything again.
And if worse comes to worst, if he doesn't get his hands on it, they'd have to make do with minimal rations until they could find another solution: one meal a day at most. It would be possible: today, having skipped breakfast, he can barely feel any weakness. Yes, one meal a day would be most reasonable. Eleven had barely noticed, and that was because she was very observant by nature, not because he had revealed anything in the way he acted. No, he knows he would manage with just lunch.
Their meager funds must, after all, be stretched as long as possible while providing Eleven at least three daily meals.
At least until I figure out a way to put food on the table, he tells himself. A way that does not put us in additional danger.
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