[ It's a frightfully logical question. Harold lost one, why not make another? Putting aside that it took him the better part of a decade and 42 failed attempts before he landed on the miracle that became the Machine, he's capable of it, he's certain. Maybe he could even do it better now, quicker. Fewer than 42 attempts, surely.
But it lands like a stab, a knife twisting in his gut. His hands spasm briefly around the mug and he sets it on the table with a thunk. He stares ahead at the glimpse of the racks of Playstations and cooling cables he can see through the subway car windows, unshattered, whole. ]
If you lost a child, would you try to make another to replace them?
[ Harold doesn't mean to be so harsh, but the grief rubs him raw when he least expects it, takes him by surprise and scrapes his nerves, cuts rough edges around his words. ]
no subject
But it lands like a stab, a knife twisting in his gut. His hands spasm briefly around the mug and he sets it on the table with a thunk. He stares ahead at the glimpse of the racks of Playstations and cooling cables he can see through the subway car windows, unshattered, whole. ]
If you lost a child, would you try to make another to replace them?
[ Harold doesn't mean to be so harsh, but the grief rubs him raw when he least expects it, takes him by surprise and scrapes his nerves, cuts rough edges around his words. ]