Eyes narrowing, William scratches at the scraggly accumulation of beard along his jaw. He's dimly aware that he's angry, getting angry, homing in on it. How can she look him in the eye and say that? Where was she when Logan tore Dolores open?

"Why?" By the time he dredges up his voice, she's moved on to more agreeable conversation. Pleasantries. They can do that later, if they have to—right now he has to do this.

"Why should it matter? There'll be another"—his arm shoots out, as though he's introducing the bloodstain where the man just stood—"along in a week."