Two buses, three miles, an Uber, two miles. He’s crisscrossed back and forth and forth. No one’s tailing him, not anymore, at least. (maybe, maybe. he’s not sure. who’s that in baseball hat?) His skin itches, prickling with goosebumps (fuck). He darts into the first store he passes, winding his way to the back and out the door into the alley, ignoring the employee’s yelled questions.
He sticks to the alleyways the rest of the way, still checking his back every few feet (behind you, behind you. that was definitely a noise. they’ve got you now. no, no just a rat). In reality, Evan lives about 20 minutes from him; today, it’s around four hours before Antonin’s standing behind Evan’s building. He’s not actually sure how long it’s been since he left his phone at home. Couldn’t risk them tracking him with that. No, no.
He slips in through the service entrance when a janitor steps out for a smoke break. It’s probably too easy to pick the lock on Evan’s door; he should fix that (or is it a trap? is it all a trap). Once inside, he begins the same process that he just finished at his own apartment-checking for bugs. Every light bulb, the picture frames, beneath the table, the electrical socket, the vent. There’s nothing (is that a bad thing though. is there a reason they trust Evan? He’s told them something, hasn’t he?).
He carefully places the couch cushions back and sits to wait for Evan to get back. He’s left a bit of mess everywhere. He’s a mess, everything’s a mess. He feels sweaty and itchy and he didn’t wash his hair this morning and the split on his knuckles from when he punched the wall at work has started oozing blood again. His stomach hurts-a mixture of anxiety and hunger-and every now and then his eyes slip shut but he just sits there. Now that he’s sat down, he isn’t certain he can get back up.
