Wapun Meadow no rest for the weary

Looking into Evien's green eyes, he isn't sure of anything. If he's acting anymore, or if this is really him. He tries to reason with himself. Planck can't find me here. Planck is probably dead. So why does he still jerk awake, full of fear and drenched in sweat?
If he had hands, one would be at his temple and the other pinching his nose bridge. Evien's explanation falls off of him like water off a duck's back. Like he'd woken up and had his ears replaced with sieves. 
Evien's questions poke him— they feel like a gun barrel pressing against a kidney, an inner thigh, all the pressure points his brother had hammered into his mind, they all blur together like one giant nerve. It's none of your business, he bristles. But the anger is makeshift, and like any fake emotion, its lifespan is remarkably short.
Fuck. I'm sorry. He gives him a look, bloodshot, one that reads: Do you know what you've gotten into? 
A long pause.
I'm hiding. From someone. he says under his breath, as if the volume of a secret would change the fact that it had been said. The sentence hangs in the air, steams like water being poured over red-hot metal.
If this got him killed, then at least it was Evien who would start that Rube Goldberg machine.