He waited for a very long time. He could feel the wind blowing on his face and through his filthy hair as he watched the other Cranks milling around him. He thought about his friends. Ghosts to him now. He wondered what had become of them. Were they even still alive? Minho. His best friend in the world. Where was he right now? Were the others with him?
He took a few steps forward, feeling the blood pounding in his head and his head twitching like a clock, counting the seconds as they passed. Counting down his time. Too slowly. Far too slowly. How much longer could he go on?
He thought then of his family. He saw his sister, his parents. They were dead now, that was true, but he would be able to see them soon, wouldn't he? Tick, tick, tick. He couldn't do it on his own, he knew that. He had his limp to prove it. If only someone could come for him. He was right here, waiting.
No one was coming. No one ever would. He'd given them their chance before, but they would not; could not do the one last thing for him. The one thing he desired more than anything. But they were safe now, safe from him. He couldn't hurt them anymore.
He saw a van pull over on the side of the highway. A boy looked him in the eye through the window. The boy got out of the van and slowly walked over to him. Then the boy spoke. A name.
"Hey, Newt."
He knew the boy. He knew him. The boy had a gun in his hand. His time had come. It was time to go home.