Delvin was quiet as he endured the onslaught. It wasn't aimed at him. It was aimed at everything. At Chester. It came from inside. It was disgusting that he'd become this faint shell of what he used to be and it wasn't even the war that had done it. It was just some screwup in a car that wasn't watching where they were going. He'd read the report. The accident hadn't been Chester's fault. When the man stomped---the best he could---out of the room and slammed the door, Delvin finished filling the first of several holes, smoothing it perfectly in place with the rest of the wall.

One of many smears of white on the off-gray wall.

When he finally capped the bucket, Delvin set it and the cloth bag of used tools aside, then sat cross-legged in front of the chair and began re-positioning it, ripping out the bent, rusted screws and digging in the toolbox for more. A new chair would be nice. But he was bound and determined to get Chester out of this hovel, so that wouldn't do much in the long run.