She looks at him like he's contorted before her eyes. In a flush of anger, he thinks of showing her how much of a person that man was—shoving her face-first into the machinery still writhing in his neck. In the next moment he pities her her conviction.

William looks past her. A helplessness that feels light, like letting go, takes hold of him. "Like you and me."

He's not sure what he'd wanted from her.