[ The words come, flowing slow and steady. He knows the cadence of Harold’s voice by now, the particular rise and fall of the tone. Each word chosen deliberately, spoken just so. And maybe Carver knows why he keeps thinking about water, choosing metaphors that lead in some or way or another back to drowning because at least that means clarity. At least then there’s a point.
He lifts his head. The world blurs. The dog doesn’t bite him.
That burden, Harold calls it. Another word for the killing. The good doctor planned to get away with it, to deal with the mess. Maybe she would have. And maybe she would’ve balked, or gotten it done just fine but been unable to survive the aftermath. You don’t know until you know.
A burden. What a thing to say. ]
He gave her mercy.
[ Carver’s voice is low. A little unfocused. He thought only the Reapers could trust each other the way Harold trusts John. ]
no subject
He lifts his head. The world blurs. The dog doesn’t bite him.
That burden, Harold calls it. Another word for the killing. The good doctor planned to get away with it, to deal with the mess. Maybe she would have. And maybe she would’ve balked, or gotten it done just fine but been unable to survive the aftermath. You don’t know until you know.
A burden. What a thing to say. ]
He gave her mercy.
[ Carver’s voice is low. A little unfocused. He thought only the Reapers could trust each other the way Harold trusts John. ]