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Rivers could feel himself involuntarily winding down for the night. His typing was becoming slower, clumsier, and he found himself having to re-read sentences in his notes more than once before committing them to fresh paper. Soon, a bath, and then bed, although his sleeping patterns were still far from adequate.
He was massaging the corners of his closed eyes, light from the lamp still burning inside them, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. It was about half past nine, which was later than Prior usually returned to the house, but not excessively so. Automatically, Rivers listened to the pace, gauging what he could about Prior's condition. The tread was slow, but not laboured; some quality in it was different to the struggling steps of Prior on a bad asthmatic day. There were no pauses. It sounded simply as if he were not particularly keen to reach the top of the stairs.
Prior didn't knock before entering the room. Having lived in the house for over a fortnight, this might be expected; but until today, Prior had still respected some sort of boundary between himself and Rivers's property. Actually, 'respected' wasn't the right word – observed, perhaps, or constructed. Rivers looked up from his work, careful not to appear as if he had been listening, and Prior stopped abruptly in the doorway. He looked tense, tight, and unhappy. He had been to visit Mac today, and, Rivers guessed, it had not gone well.
"Is everything all right?" Rivers said, setting down his papers.
"If you mean, 'Did I carry out my work for the Ministry to my fullest capabilities?', the answer is yes."
Oh dear, thought Rivers. "You've been to see MacDowell?"
"Yes. Oh, he's just dandy. Stinking of shit, cuts and bruises, stone-walled cell. Delighted to see me, of course."
Prior's refusal to move into or out of the room was itself indicative of things being in a bad way. Prior talked to Rivers relatively freely, these days; he requested official appointments just as often as Rivers suggested them. Now, however, he seemed stuck, obviously wanting to talk about whatever had happened but equally obviously not wanting to talk at all. New Prior versus Old Prior. Not that Rivers would encourage any more divisions.
"Do you want to sit down?" Rivers indicated the chair across the desk.
"Not really," said Prior, but he came into the room, walked over to the fire, stared into it for a moment, and then walked back again. Rivers stayed silent, watching him, until Prior looked him straight in the eye and said, "I turned him in, if you're wondering. Mac told me. There was no reason for him to lie."
Rivers paused. This was the first time that Prior had referred to actions in his fugue state as having been committed by himself, and not by an unknown 'him'. He said, "Was that what you were expecting?"
Prior stared at him, hard. "Really? No reaction to that news, Rivers? No surprise? No lack of surprise? No emotional response at all to hearing that a man has sent his childhood friend to prison?"
"I'm not here to respond emotionally." Rivers was calm, measured, but the way Prior was spitting words like challenges was worrying.
"But you're the first person I've told. I've denied it to everyone else. In good faith, but incorrectly, apparently. I need to know what the appropriate reaction is, so I can check mine against it."
"And what is your reaction?"
"Oh, you know." Prior's lip twisted. "Disgust. Nausea. And then the comforting knowledge that I am – always have been – a slimy, backstabbing little sod." Rivers said nothing, and after a moment Prior continued, "I met Mac in Salford and effectively struck a deal. Then I went back on it. I didn't think I was the sort of person to do that. I've realised – remembered – that I am."
The self-loathing emanating from Prior was entirely new, aside from the few times he'd deigned to talk to Rivers about the contents of his nightmares. Prior's self-containment, his constant furthering of his own agenda, an agenda he believed in, was shaken. It was slightly disconcerting.
"Come and sit by the fire," said Rivers, standing up, sensing that any kind of official consultation would only make things worse. Their best bet might be for Prior to talk without the pressures of the desk and all it stood for.
"No, thank you." Prior seemed unwilling to commit to anything, and yet refused to leave, or to stop talking. "I want you to tell me what you think. I've been going over all of this, for hours and hours, and now I'm ready for a second opinion."
"I think," said Rivers, carefully, "that your acceptance of your actions as your own, even though you don't remember carrying them out, is a very positive sign."
"Christ, Rivers." Prior looked at him, almost desperate, not the sharp, incisive glance that Rivers had grown to half-fear, half-ignore. "I don't want to know what you think about my fucking lunatic brain. I want to know what you think is right. Or don't you have a conscience any more? Do they excise that at medical school?"
Prior seemed to be regressing almost to Craiglockhart standards of antagonism. Good work undone. Damn MacDowell, thought Rivers, unfairly. Perhaps he should have stopped Prior from going to see him. Not that he could have done. But he could have tried.
Rivers took a deep breath. "All right. I think that you are – that you were – in an impossibly difficult position, in which no course of action was unequivocally right or wrong. But," he continued, before Prior could begin the riposte he could see forming on his lips, "but, it is worth considering that you did the duty that your position required. For a professional adversary to be a private friend is very unfortunate, but I think a lot of people would tell you that you did the right thing."
"And are you a lot of people?"
Strange, thought Rivers, that his personal opinion mattered so much. Well, not strange, it was almost to be expected, but the amount that Prior cared was striking in comparison to the effort he put into not caring.
"Yes," said Rivers, eventually, "I think I am."
Prior turned away, but not quickly enough for Rivers to miss an expression of – what? Disappointment, it looked like. Bitter disappointment.
Rivers was rather surprised. He had told the truth: Prior's situation had, indeed, been near-impossible, and while Rivers couldn't honestly say what he would have done in his position, he didn't believe that Prior had acted dishonourably. But, whatever his personal opinion happened to be, he had assumed that Prior was asking for validation and comfort, whether or not he was conscious of that request.
Prior had wandered over to the fire again, and when he turned to face Rivers, who followed him, his expression was back to a familiar sneer. "Sometimes," he said, "just sometimes, I am stupid enough to forget everything it is you represent." Waiting for an answer, and clearly irritated when Rivers didn't provide one, Prior continued with redoubled force. "Does it not occur to you that maybe I'm utterly sick of this uniform excusing everything? I'm absolutely loyal to it, and that repulses me. Loyalty is overrated anyway, and to this? I had hoped that perhaps you weren't. Stupid of me. What should I expect from Captain Rivers but a 'Well done'?"
"I'm not here as a soldier. I'm not a soldier. I'm your doctor."
"You're an army doctor." When Rivers said nothing, Prior inhaled sharply. "And what am I? Who am I to take any sort of moral high ground? I'm not sure I have any morals. I've killed people. I know, that's not so unusual any more, is it? But most of our newly-minted killers, well, they can remind themselves what a good person they are outside of these exceptional circumstances. And outside of these exceptional circumstances, what have I done? I've betrayed friends; I've been faithful to nobody; oh, and some part of me finds all the fucking awful things I've done exciting." The nocturnal emissions again, Rivers presumed. "I enjoy hurting people. I don't enjoy enjoying it, but that's not the point. If that's not the complete opposite of the moral high ground, I don't know what is."
This self-disgust, again, was unusual, and, to Rivers, somewhat unsettling. It ought not to be: Prior was, in a way, accepting the parts of himself that he had attempted to completely disown, which was healthy. Rivers supposed he just wasn't used to seeing it.
"And," Prior continued, turning on Rivers with a sort of vicious glee, "you agree with me. Don't you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm not a nice person, Rivers, and I know that you dislike that about me. The distance, the silence, the wallpaper, part of that is just what you do, but part of it is because of me."
Rivers, uncharacteristically, felt compelled to interject. "I really don't want you to think that."
"Too late, though, and it's fair enough. Why else would you treat me so differently to your golden boys? Apart from class, I suppose, which I considered, but I don't think it's that. I think it's much more personal."
"Prior, I don't – "
"Oh, why not go the whole way? 'Mister Prior' keeps me at a safe distance, doesn't it?"
"I do not dislike you," said Rivers, with unexpected force, and immediately regretted it. He took a moment to compose himself, and then: "I wouldn't have invited you to continue treatment if I felt the way you describe."
"Yes, you would." Prior regarded him with contempt. "You're ever so professional."
Rivers was genuinely surprised to realise he was quite angry. Whether that anger was with Prior, with himself, with the situation in general, anything – he had no idea. He just felt a deep, very unusual, impulse of strong emotion.
"You are completely wrong," he said, his voice tight, and Prior looked as if he hadn't expected Rivers to say something so unequivocal. Rivers wondered if he ever had before. "And I think it's important that you understand that nothing of the sort has ever affected my conduct towards you." Rivers took a deep breath, but it failed to calm him; his anger and confusion and surprise had completely thrown him off balance, and he had no coping mechanism for these things. He didn't know what he was going to say. "Th-th-the the the the point is – "
"Oh, off you fucking go." Prior had become indiscriminately offensive; an occasional stammerer himself, he was not given to mocking it in others.
"The point is – "
"Yes?"
Rivers didn't know how to explain what the point was. That his relationship with Prior had a different quality to that with many of his other patients because of the way Prior viewed him, not the other way around; and because he had rather assumed that Prior didn't want him to attempt a sort of friendship, preferring to keep Rivers as an explicit authority for him to occasionally kick against; and because Prior's habit of aggressive flirtation put him surprisingly off-kilter; and because, because, Rivers was horribly aware of a current of feeling he had towards Prior that he was able to completely dissociate from their interaction –
" – that I d-d-d-d-d-don't don't don't – "
Acting on emotional impulse was so foreign to Rivers that he was, for a moment, unaware that he had done so. He first noticed that he had stopped talking, and only then realised that this was because he had kissed Prior. It was like another, separate part of himself had made the decision. Ha ha. Prior would like that. Prior, incidentally, had gone completely still, and then, impossibly, Rivers felt him put a hand on the back of his head, to press into Rivers, to pull him closer.
Rivers's real, normal, sensible brain, utterly horrified, hauled him backwards. For a moment, he and Prior stared at each other, and Rivers could honestly say he'd never seen Prior look so amazed. In other circumstances, he might have enjoyed it. It took only a second for the amazement to morph into something more familiar and unwelcome, and before Prior could say whatever he was about to say, Rivers said, "I am incredibly sorry about that," which didn't clear things up as much as he might have hoped.
"Oh, it's a pleasure," said Prior, and Rivers could practically see his brain going into delighted overdrive, like a child made speechless by a gift so perfect, so unexpected, they can barely react. What was this, for Prior? A revelation? Ammunition? A joke? Rivers stood silently, helplessly, cursing everything and everyone.
"I had no idea you cared," Prior said, after a moment, his voice dripping with mock-emotion, although they both knew that the problem was that this remark was simply the truth. It only worked as a sarcastic response to something quite different. Rivers did, evidently, care, and he was also definitely inclined to believe that Prior hadn't known. He certainly would have made some more explicit taunts to the effect before now. Or some more explicit advances. No, Prior was incisive, persistent, and perceptive, but he was not a mind-reader – and Rivers was a difficult subject. "So. Your room or mine?"
"I think you should leave," said Rivers, quietly, and then, "Or one of us should leave."
Prior blocked his exit. "I don't think you can do something like that and then leave me to brood. What would that do to me? Where are your ethics?"
"Please."
"I'm not going to do anything," said Prior, suddenly, looking almost offended. "Jesus Christ, Rivers. I won't even touch you. Just – don't you want to talk about it?" Prior finished in familiar, melting tones.
"Stop it. Just – stop. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I'm not sure you ought to be anything of the sort. You've got to fully accept every aspect of yourself, haven't you, in order to get better? No shame. 'There has to be a moment when you look in the mirror and say, yes, this too is myself.'"
"I'm sorry that I d-d-d-d-did that."
"Ah, but not for what was behind it. Fair enough." Prior had begun to pace up and down in front of him, almost bubbling over with exhilaration. Rivers wondered exactly how much of this was news to Prior. Certainly Rivers's feelings towards him; but his sexuality, in general? Probably Prior was surprised to discover not its direction, but that he had one. Or perhaps not. "In that case, I forgive you. Will that do?"
"No." Rivers really ought to leave. "You are a patient, and I was entirely out of line."
"Right. I see. So if I wasn't a patient, everything would be fine." Prior's eyes raked over him. In this mood, he made Rivers feel quite unsafe. He was disturbingly good at getting to the heart of a matter. "Or would it? Fine in terms of your professional conduct, anyway. Fine in terms of your system of morality. But not," he said, slowly, "in terms of your acting upon it. You're not panicking because I'm a patient," Prior concluded, triumphantly. "It's because you did anything at all."
For a second, Rivers closed his eyes, tried to stop listening, to stop sensing Prior in front of him, and then when he opened them, he walked past Prior and to the door.
"Wait," said Prior, following him, "wait," and grabbed Rivers by the arm, although he let go again immediately when Rivers stopped, and held his hands up. There was some semblance of apology in his expression. Prior spent so much time insisting that Rivers present himself as a human, and yet only seemed to very occasionally remember that he was one. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, some of the slightly malicious excitement draining from his voice.
Rivers wasn't even sure he was particularly physically attracted to Prior, although he certainly wasn't unattractive. He had not, obviously, allowed himself to dwell on the issue, and to examine exactly why he felt the way he did, but he had some idea it might be to do with Prior's sheer impossibility. An impossible love for an impossible thing. Prior's own indiscriminate inclinations – which, despite Prior's relative openness on the matter, had become clear only some time into their professional relationship – were fairly irrelevant. They caused a problem only in terms of the defensive-offensive flirtation, which Prior was presumably entirely unaware had a tendency to hit home, and in terms of the situation Rivers found himself in at this precise moment.
Rivers's sexual experiences, few and far between as they may have been in comparison to most people of his age, had one thing in common: they had all taken place at a point at which his only course of action seemed to be to give up. On rationality, on self-assessment. This relinquishing of control happened very rarely, because it caused him to step outside of his normal persona, an experience he found disconcerting. He was unable to allow himself to observe and analyse as he usually did, and so that part of him simply ceased to be there, returning afterwards, gently admonishing, and then carrying on as normal.
"No, I don't want to talk about it," Rivers said, which was true. And then, quite easily, finding himself absolutely at the end of his tether, he just stepped back. He was not completely aware of kissing Prior again, even though he knew it was happening, or of the way that Prior reacted in the same way as before – another surprised, tense pause, although shorter, this time, before he reciprocated. Prior moved slowly, evidently confused by Rivers's behaviour, as well he might be, but when Rivers didn't attempt to stop them again, Prior didn't either.
"Your room or mine?" Prior said, again, unable even now to make it sound unlike a joke.
*
The first wave of rational response hit Rivers some hours later, when he awoke, alone in bed, after an uneasy couple of hours' sleep. A patch of cold sweat had formed under his lower back, and he felt very uncomfortable. As he shifted on his arms, the reality of what had happened was presented to him very clearly. He was horrified. His usual reaction to such an event was closer to discomfort, dissociation, a desire to put the entire thing as far away from himself as possible, where it could be occasionally safely examined; but the fact that the other party was a patient made rather a difference. The fact that the patient was Prior only exacerbated things. Rivers thought, almost said out loud, what on earth have I done?
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, for what might have been ten minutes or might have been an hour, before beginning again to drift in and out of fitful sleep. He dreamt about the trenches, as he often did, despite never having seen them. The thudding of guns and the whine of shells was interspersed with cries that he knew, knew for certain, came from people he could identify. Prior, Sassoon, Burns, Anderson, but also people who oughtn't to be there – Head, Bryce, Charles – hell, anybody he had the slightest bit of fellow-feeling towards seemed to be somewhere nearby, getting blown to bits. But he could find none of them, however hard he looked.
As he began to be more awake than asleep, he realised the noise of the gun was real: from the Heath came the low boom he'd mostly learnt to sleep through.
He forced himself to stay in bed until eight, although once he'd made the decision to get up, it suddenly became near-impossible. Continuing with life would be an admission of what had occurred; here, in bed, in a half-dream world, everything remained abstract. Accordingly, when he sat up, he felt dreadful. Physically so, with an aching body (psychosomatic: they had not been athletic) and a splitting headache.
Prior didn't usually rise before nine. Rivers was very sorely tempted to leave the house, and not return to face him until the evening. Prior might even be out when he got back. Perhaps they could delay seeing each other for days. But Rivers knew that he would only make things worse by letting himself pull every detail apart inside his own head. It was better to talk to Prior this morning.
He walked past the door to Prior's room on his way to breakfast, and was surprised to find it open, and the room empty. It wasn't unheard of for Prior to get up early, and so he took a deep breath before entering the kitchen, expecting – what? Prior looking up to regard him over a cup of coffee, a sardonic raise of the eyebrow, some kind of quip. Or mutinous silence, with occasional sidelong glances when he thought Rivers wasn't looking. Rivers didn't know which he feared more.
The kitchen, however, was empty. Feeling uneasy, even though there was no particular reason to be, Rivers walked in turn through each room of his floor of the house, all of which were deserted. Prior had gone out, early enough that Rivers had not been awake to hear him leave.
The breakfast things were untouched; Prior hadn't used them. Eventually, Rivers boiled a pot of coffee and forced down two slices of toast, which stuck like dry gritty lumps in his throat. He could think of nothing to do other than continue working, but this proved impossible. He was unable even to successfully type up his notes, making mistakes on every page. Frustrated, he pushed the typewriter away – a futile gesture, which knocked some papers to the floor – and closed his eyes. It was stupid to worry about Prior: there was no reason that he shouldn't leave the house early. Rivers also rather imagined that Prior might be less adversely affected by what had happened than he himself had been: wasn't it, for Prior, just another notch on the bedpost? No, it wasn't that simple. What nagged at Rivers was the surprise that Prior didn't want to confront him – be it with mockery, anger, or whatever else.
Rivers's breath caught for a moment when he heard footsteps. He'd only been at his desk for about half an hour. He opened his eyes, and waited.
Prior didn't knock, again. This time he entered the room less dramatically, closed the door behind him, and took a couple of steps forward. For a few seconds, they regarded each other, and then Prior smiled: a slow, strangely emotionless smile. Rivers's mouth, suddenly, was dry. His mind took a moment to catch up with his body.
"Hello again," Prior said, the horrible not-smile still on his face. "So glad we could catch up."
This was only Rivers's second encounter with Prior in his fugue state. He had not particularly enjoyed the first.
"Hello, Billy."
"Ooh, too little too late, don't you think?"
Rivers swallowed. "Won't you sit down?"
With exaggerated daintiness, Prior pulled out the chair across from Rivers and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He didn't speak. Rivers had no idea what conversation he should be having with Prior at all, let alone with him in this state. It disturbed him, suddenly, almost sickened him, to think of this part of Prior observing them, coldly, clinically, the night before. Rivers swallowed. To think of them as separate entities was unhealthy – for Prior too.
"Well, go on," said Prior, raising his eyebrows.
"What do you mean?"
"Go on and question me." Prior folded his hands in his lap. "Ask me what I remember. Ask how I feel about it."
"I imagine you remember everything."
"Oh, yes. And he does, too."
Rivers was too tired, too uncomfortable, too everything, to attempt to raise the issue of pronouns again. "I feel like I ought to explain myself."
"Not at all. Animal instinct. It's in all of us. There's nothing to explain."
"But this isn't – it's not – that's not good enough." Rivers closed his eyes, and wondered if he really, truly, was about to impart personal information to Prior without half an hour of goading and needling beforehand. "The state I was in last night was not one of complete personal control. I can't say that I was – "
Prior, suddenly, slapped both hands on the table. "Dry, dry, dry. Come on, Rivers. What I want to talk about is you and him." Prior extended a forefinger towards Rivers, then poked it into his own chest. "I'd like to know exactly what you thought was going on. I simply can't imagine what your reasoning was. The best I've come up with is that you thought it might have helped him. Been some sort of comfort. Turns out you've thrown an old friend in jail, boo hoo, so sorry, but at least you can still get a fuck." Prior paused. "No? Well. In that case, I can only assume it was to help you. Reached the end of your tether with him – understandably – and sometimes it does seem to be the only language he speaks."
"No, that wasn't what happened."
"Ah." Prior's eyes lit up. "Just a natural conclusion, then. It had to happen at some point."
"I really don't think it did. I don't think it should have done."
"Well, those are two very separate points. Should? I suppose there's no reason that anything should or shouldn't happen. But as for inevitability – well. The way you are with him. So different to everyone else." Rivers felt himself go a little cold. Prior, apparently, could sense it, and he smiled again. "I can see what he can't, remember? Staring him in the face." Rivers still said nothing. "He didn't know, if you were wondering."
"I didn't think he did." There was silence for a few seconds, before Rivers was able to form the question that he needed, but didn't want, to ask. "The state you're in at the moment – before, it's been triggered by trauma, or despair, or otherwise intolerable circumstances." Rivers could barely continue, but Prior cut in before he could stumble to a conclusion.
"Oh, I see. Has your ill-advised fuck left him in such a dreadful emotional state that he's had to disappear and leave me to deal with it? No, not quite." Prior uncrossed his legs. "I come when he doesn't know what to do. It's easier, now, to take over. It used to be only when things got really bad, when he was frightened. Now I can slip in with him barely noticing."
"And you took over this morning."
"Yes. A little while after he woke up. He tried to go back to sleep." Prior leaned forward across the desk, studying Rivers quite intensely. It was only a magnified version of what Prior did most of the time anyway, but it made Rivers profoundly uncomfortable. "The worst thing is that he likes you. Baffling, isn't it? Why should he? He actively doesn't want you to be a father figure. He talks himself out of it sometimes. And yet he wants to impress you. Please you, even. Why should you matter?" Prior sounded almost bitter. "Why should any of it matter?"
"I don't know."
Prior changed in mood, like a flash. Without warning, he twisted his lip, cruelly. "You remember that I don't feel pain."
"It's a hysterical symptom." Rivers kept his voice level, but felt unease in the pit of his stomach. Prior was not self-destructive. He was self-preserving above almost all else; not in a selfish way, but in a determined, necessary sort of way. But the split between his fugue and normal states was only worsening.
"He likes to hurt people. Not you, though. Certainly not physically. I'm less selective. I'd like to see you in some kind of pain."
Even feet away from Prior in what looked like a dangerous state, Rivers didn't feel afraid. This was still Prior, was some part of him, and Rivers didn't believe that Prior was capable of physical violence towards him.
Casually, Prior picked up a paper-knife from the desk, and ran his thumb over the blade. "I don't think you're capable of stopping me. Physically capable, I mean." He smiled again. "I should know." He began to trail the knife, very gently, along his palm, down to his wrists. "Here? Or the neck? A little too dangerous, perhaps. I wouldn't want him to actually die. Obviously." His eyes snapped away from the knife, back to Rivers. "What would you do? Would you shout? Cry? Or would you be emotionless, efficient, let the doctor take over?"
Rivers held out his hand, not daring to look at it in case it shook. "Give me the knife."
Prior handed it over, his smile showing his teeth. "Oh, Rivers," he said, his voice an unpleasant sing-song, "what have you done?"
Rivers shut his eyes, his hand closing tightly around the knife, and he brought the other hand to join it, briefly. He didn't think he needed to keep it away from Prior, not now that he thought about it, because he would never seriously injure himself – of course he wouldn't – but he had succeeded in making Rivers's heart pound unevenly, in making his body sticky with cold, panicked sweat.
"Rivers."
Rivers opened his eyes. Prior's voice had been different, very different: shaky and unsure of itself. He looked, somehow, quite physically changed, although that wasn't possible. Paler, with darker shadows under his eyes. He was back.
"Rivers." Prior was looking at the knife in Rivers's hand. He swallowed a couple of times, and then said, "What did I…?"
"Nothing." Rivers opened a drawer, and dropped the knife into it. "Nothing at all."
"I remember waking up." Prior looked drained. "How long has it been?"
"I don't know. Perhaps three hours. You've been here about fifteen minutes."
Prior nodded, resigned. Before he could think about anything else, Rivers cleared his throat, and tried to speak as calmly as possible.
"I don't think we can continue to see each other. That's my fault, and I apologise."
"What?"
"After what happened, there's no way I can continue to treat you."
Prior looked, frankly, aghast. "Why not?"
Rivers almost laughed. "It's unthinkable." After a moment, he added, "You're surprised. You must have expected this."
"I didn't think of it."
"I suppose not."
"Rivers, I don't care. I don't care about any of it. This is the worst possible time I could stop seeing you. I need you to get rid of him." He paused, taking in Rivers's face. "Or join us back together, or whatever it is. It happened just now."
Rivers, again, found it hard to speak. "And why do you think that was?"
"Because I can't stop it from happening." Prior rubbed his face with both hands. "Listen. Last night doesn't matter. I mean it." He kept talking, over Rivers's attempt to reply. "I will – and this is big, coming from me – if it solves the problem, I will never mention it. I will pretend it didn't happen. I will completely release you from the whole thing."
Rivers nearly smiled. The childlike simplicity of it: if Prior didn't talk about it, it didn't exist. If I can't see the monster, it can't see me.
"To go back," Prior continued, "to keep going, to keep serving, I'm dependent on…" he paused. "On a full recovery." He looked away for a second, as if he had finished, and then, at the last moment, said, "You can't leave me."
Rivers swept his hand down across his eyes, and thought: no.