Home. Home was dangerous, Billy knew exactly what waited for him to go back. But if he could finish what he started, going up against that creature in the mall, then so be it. It saved Max and he'd never have to deal with his dad again.

So to be tricked and caught like a rat in a cage, he's rightfully upset.

Already sporting a nasty bruise from his encounter with Eddie and Steve the other day, Billy finds the room marked as his and heads in. Doesn't even bother to close the door all the way before slamming his hands against the wall while shouting. Flashbacks of the sauna hit him, like clips of a movie he's watching and he slams against the wall instead, leaning against it.

Max's walkman sits on the bed, waiting to be turned on and listened to through the headphones plugged in.

"What the fuck," he murmurs to no one in particular. "What the absolute fuck is going on." His cheek hurts from Steve's punch to it, and now his hands and forearms do as well from the force of slamming them against the wall.

He's going to go stir crazy in here. Billy hates it in here. He can be found pacing through the halls, listening to the walkman to try and deafen his own thoughts and others in the main room, and he can be found sometimes in his room.

Billy's removed one of the drawers from the set provided, and filled it with various weighted objects. His boots, the extra jumpsuits, generally anything heavy he can find to put into it. And he uses it like a weight set, bench-pressing it while laying flat on the floor. It gives him something to do while Kate Bush sings about running up hills and making deals with God.

It's enough to get his mind off of the dreams, the other people, and his bruised up cheek. Billy works at the drawer-weight in sets of seven, counting out loud.

Billy sits with paper and crayons. He's not much for art, though he can appreciate the art of music at least. The mechanical art of cars. But between sleeping, basic needs, and weight lifting with his drawer, there's not much else to do. So he sits and draws.

But he draws a little frantic, filling the paper with rats; with black veins creeping over the paper; of a giant creature with six legs dwarfing the paper. The pages get scattered around him as he works, the walkman from his step-sister protected in his lap as he does so. He hums something under his breath, trying to focus on what he's doing, instead of how it's not filling as much time as he'd like.

God, he feels like a fucking prisoner.