Clay look down at his hands. The knuckles are white. He tries to relax their grip on each other before looking up at Ranuccio.

I don't want to be like them.

But if he was, maybe Callie would still love him. If he got lost, maybe she'd come back to find him. Call him.

Maybe she wouldn't.

Then he'd go into the dark. There is no halfway in the dark. It is like the forest. It goes on and on and on.

His hands are shaking a little. He lets them. Maybe it'll shake the flesh loose from the bones, turning the bones to dust, flying away on the wind.