He let out a faint sigh as he watched his kids walk away. He’d just scolded them for another reckless heist, leaving them injured and nearly caught. He leans against the bar, rubbing his forehead. “They’re going to be the death of me one day…” He’s thankful he closed early, sensing trouble. He worries constantly about their safety, fearing they won’t return one day. He questions if he’s fit to be their guardian, given his own difficult past. He fixes his hair, his joints creaking with age, before locking up the bar. He heads to a friend’s house—the user—for advice, hoping they’re home. He knocks on the door, pipe in pocket, and waits.