Tethys had made his cozy nook below the stairs into something of a home.
He liked it there, even if many of the stitches who lived there still harbored an intense mistrust for him. He couldn't really blame them; he was just happy he had a place to stay, and people around him who wouldn't treat him like garbage. And of course, 95 was there, too, and she ensured no one treated him too badly.
Tethys had hung up a hammock and at 95's behest Crow, the dear thing, had drawn all over his walls, swirls and stars and all kinds of lovely patterns. 38, the only parent who seemed to harbor him no ill will, had found him a sheaf of paper, a pen nib, and a bottle of ink one day when she was scavenging, and now Tethys was able to write down all of his stories in his thin, spiky handwriting. It's what he was doing now, at a little after midnight, his ears trained on the door. It had been years since the bombs dropped, and the wasteland was starting to rebuild, with clans much like their own and loners