Duke had made an effort all day yesterday, right through last night. Tried to stay with his people, even though doing that made him even more intent to swallow everything down and be as normal as possible. (His issues weren't Rory's fault. She deserved a good, together family. Every kid deserved one of those.)

But after another night of uneasy dreams -- and another morning of sleep paralysis, feeling trapped in his own body while an unknown figure loomed over him, intent to do . . . things to him and his partners -- he was just. Done. He got up, stumbled into a pair of pants, and threw himself into the pillow room, locking the door behind him. And proceeded to throw things, secure in the knowledge that nothing in here was going to break while he did. And the cushioning would even muffle his screams.