room 227 ; sunday evening

Sam was heading into his last week on the island and he wasn't looking forward to it. He found that while a part of him wanted to go home because he did miss Seattle, another part didn't want to go anywhere.

There were reasons for both sets of thoughts and they were giving Sam a headache. He figured he should maybe start packing but, well, he didn't have a lot to begin with and what he did have could be shoved in suitcases and bags a few hours before he actually left.

So, he wasn't doing anything. Or, well, he was doing something but it wasn't packing. He'd turned his record player on and was spinning something jazzy currently. It was giving him some motivation to go through his clothes and, at least, so he could start sorting things that he wanted to wash before he left and things he knew he wouldn't wear before he left.

It was the start of packing but he was being slow about it. Slow and slackerish.