No, I mean... [ He ducks his head, hair scattering into his eyes. Brushing up against that other self. A fractional hesitation and he puts out his hand, palm up. Matter of fact. If she takes it—she won't take it—it'll be rough, shaped around the handle of his knife.

He keeps going: ] The weather. How you felt that morning. When did it happen? When did you know, what was the first thing you—your first regret?