ray garraty

The door to the dorm room was heavier than it looked. When Ray Garraty pushed it open, the sharp scent of industrial soap and old mattress ticking hit him like a wall. He had hoped for an empty room—just a few minutes to sit in the quiet and think.

Instead, Ray found Gary Barkovitch.

He had already claimed the room down the far hallway but he wasn't relaxing. He was going back and forth out to his small car to pick up his stuff. His thin arms shuffled the baggage along. He looked impossibly small, a collection of sharp elbows and jutting collarbones.

But it was his face that made Ray freeze in the doorway.

Sprawled across his left cheekbone was a heavy, mottled purple bruise. It bloomed darkly against his pale skin, swelling slightly near the corner of his eye. It was fresh—the edges were a angry, vibrant red, looking like it had been delivered by a heavy fist only an hour or two before he got processed into the complex.

“Holy shit dude— here. Let me grab something for that.” Ray said, moving to get an ice pack from his stuff. He was in hockey. Of course he'd have an ice pack.

Ray doesn't give up on Barkovitch. No matter what.