William nods, slowly, pillowcase bunched around his nose like a fucked-up bouquet. Blood smeared at his wrist. Looks at her standing there all alone, squared up to something he can't see. Something a world away, or dead and gone. “I hate this room,” he says softly, the words tumbling out of him. He laughs—just through his mouth, soft too.

He beckons her over, the gesture tender or maybe just exhausted. As though he might abandon it halfway through.