For a long time, I thought the kid was hallucinating or something. He'd been standing in a fucking well for four days, starved, tired, scared--

[Steve's face lifts into the air with an alerted "Snub?". She sniffs, and wrinkles her nose at the sharp scent. Blake's nails have drawn blood from his palms. Blake loosens his hands.]

He could've seen anything. That's what I kept telling myself.

But...it didn't sound like a hallucination that went away. He talked like it was a long time ago. Like he'd spent a long time with a dead dad.

If it was a nightmare, he would've woken up by then.

[Horrific. Yeah, that's about the word for it.

He dares to look at Heather out of the corner of his eye.] You believe me?

[He says it like a report, not an argument.] I didn't kill him. He's alive and well. Had his picture in the paper for weeks.

[He breathes in deep, and out again.]

But for that kid he's dead, and it's because of me.

[Suddenly he looks at her, and his voice is full of urgency, imploring.]

How am I supposed to deal with that? How can I man up and take responsibility when I'm not the one who pulled the trigger?