He cries out, sharp and desperate, and she jumps so far out of her skin she gets motion sickness trying to find her way back in. Black spots fizzle in her vision, heart racing — there ain't nothing she can compare this to, no steady ground, no reassuring memory; just the terror of the unknown, reaching out with no clue what will happen, scared witless but she can't, she can't, she can't back away — eyes fixed on his eyes through his whole speech.









"Ben."





Please, he says.



Please.







She swallows, thick, voice coming out small.

"Don't be stupid."

She doesn't touch him. She wants to, she aches to, needing to gather him up the way a hen gathers her chicks, needing to tell him it's all right — and, in so doing, convince herself it will be all right — but she doesn't touch him.



Please.



"You didn't take. I gave it t'you."



Doesn't he understand?
Doesn't he get it?







"I gave it t'you."