DO YOU FEEL THE HUNGER? // RETURN

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]His fever cleared up slowly. It was a hazy process, one aided by whatever people had managed to shove in his mouth and then sleep. So much sleep. He hadn't woken up for what felt like weeks, at least not for anything more than a bite of food and enough water to make him feel sick. Hazy daydreams that morphed into nightmares — familiar shapes kept disappearing, like the way Gabe would fall through his shoulders except these people fell through reality. Disappear entirely into the shadows, wispy and dying. He could never really explain it, an' he'd never really tried. It reminds him of the fever dreams he'd had when he was younger, sleeping in the alley with infected injuries that felt red hot. Half-asleep and being too scared to touch things because they might pop like bubbles, or sitting there with a racing heart as the world turned upside down around him. He got less of them now, probably since he knows how to take better care of himself. (Just less. They're not done with him yet.)

Still, the Cane Corso looks better than he did back in the desert. Less sweat, that's for sure. Healed injuries, just more things to his list of scars. And like Moon, the dog's got some kind of grin on his face. Or he will, in a second — first, green eyes narrow at Onision as he growls just faintly, and second, he makes some huffing noise at the lion that really expresses what he feels about that question (Gabe deserves to be here as much as anyone else). "Cállate, carajo. ¿Te vas a quedar, viejo?" There's almost something excited about the way he says it, and the way cropped ears perk up. He's still awkward, still out of place, but — the hybrid had always been there to help him learn. It just takes some patience and elbow grease.