[ It's better to be treated like a sick animal than a broken machine. A sick animal can heal, however ugly the scars left behind are. He watches the marks of his ill-fated isolation be covered up one winding turn at a time, conscious of Hannibal's attention turning back to his face.

I don't think you want to drown.

He hitches a little at that, blinking hard. He remembers the river, all the stones they threw that didn't skip, vanishing into the water-that-wasn't. He'd gone back to look for her there when she disappeared. Then he'd stared at it too long, picturing the arc of the stones slipping to the bottom.

But then he'd walked back from the bank. He always walks back, however close he gets, however much he probably deserves to go under. How many times can he get away with it before he slips? ]

It's easier to ruin things first.

[ He licks his bitten lips, vaguely aware of how chapped and worried they are. Like hers always used to be. ]

Before anything else does, you know? Because then at least I did it on purpose. Everything good I try to do, any progress I make, I mess it up. And I know that, and I still...

[ He wants to try to clean things up. A room, the wreck of his life, the shattered splinters of his guilt. ]

How far gone can someone get before they can't come back?