[attr="class","dibody2"]Two months, fourteen days, fifteen hours, and thirty three minutes

That was a long time to be on the road, even for the nomadic Carver. Dead lead after dead lead ended up with him traveling far north, into the Midwest, toward Oregon, and finally into the southern reaches of Canada. In that time, Carver had gone through four phones, two sets of tires, and been banned from no less than two bars. His efforts were rewarded with nothing but wasted time. 

He was entering the Montreal city limits when he finally hit "fuck it" on his patience gauge. It might have been his complete lack of understanding of the French language that put the final nail in the coffin. The homesickness that was brewing in him was another contributing factor. Whatever the truth of it was it was in that moment that he ripped on his e-brake and spun his car in a full one hundred degree turn.  

With Montreal in his rearview Carver began the nearly seventeen hundred mile drive back home to New Orleans.

------

The rancorous rumbling of his 1971 Barracuda's engine was the first sign that Jonathan Carver had found his way back home. The haggard man idled in front of the group home for several minutes. He checked the clock, noting that it was half past noon and that the yard was practically empty.

He found it strange until he recalled the fact that most residents of the house would more than likely be wrapped up in class. His face contorted, realizing that the roar of his finely tuned machine might not be appreciated by those obediently studying. He killed the engine and parted with his car but not before bidding it a farewell. "That was a long one darlin'. Let's do it again soon. Not too soon though." he said, affectionately patting the black car's hood before walking the path up to Phalanx's porch. 
 
He patted his person, searching for his keys. His frisking netted him forty-seven cents, a pocket knife, half a pack of cigarettes, a bottle cap, and a receipt containing a chewed wad of gum. He grimaced, inconspicuously tossing the receipt into a potted plant. Unwilling to return to his car Carver lifted the pot turned garbage can and revealed a hidden key. He promptly unlocked the door and stashed the key back in its proper hiding spot. He then proceeded to smash through the door like a wrecking ball, throwing it open with wild abandon.

"Astor! Kimchi! I'm home, where the fuc- whoops. Where the heck are ya?" That was the second cacophony of Carver's triumphant return home. He had already forgotten his previous attempts to be quiet, slamming the door closed with enough force to shake the wall. His brown eyes scanned the desolate entryway and the living room that followed after. He huffed, hurt that there was no one to welcome him home.

That was his fault mostly. He was supposed to remain in regular contact with Phalanx about his progress. For the most part, he was pretty punctual about reporting in. In all of the excitement of returning home, he had completely forgotten to mention that he was actually on his way. "Freakin' Ass-star, frickin' Kimchi, I didn't expect a party or nothin' but at least a banner or somethin'." Carver continued his string of curses as he entered the kitchen.

Moderately disgruntled at his treatment, he opened the fridge and began to rummage through. He noted a strange abundance of Mexican food and ignored it, heading straight for the milk. In a situation such as this there was only one remedy; cereal for lunch.

Carver took a hold of the nearly full gallon and located his box of Lucky Charms, marked by the liberal use of duct tape that read "CARVER'S!" complete with skulls and crossbones. It was empty and even if it had survived it would have been expired. He wrinkled his nose opting to take a box of lesser cereal. 

With a box of Cinamon Toast Crunch in tow, Carver took up a spot on the counter. He opened the sugary treat and plowed his rough hand into it, funneling small bits of cinnamon and wheat into his mouth. His other hand clutched the handle of the jug of milk, bringing the container up to his lips to mix the two ingredients. He was much too tired to deal with bowls or silverware and decided to cut out the middleman altogether. 

Chances were he'd polish off the box and gallon in a single sitting. "Welcome home, Carv, great to see ya. Wow, we really missed ya. Oh? Did you have a good trip?"


"It was great. Didn't find any more tykes but I picked up some leads. Thanks for asking. I sure missed you guys." Carver monologued between bites.

He wasn't the least bit bitter about his underwhelming reception or willing to admit his own fault in its disappointing nature. 

Not one bit.