John hmms agreement, soft under the wet hiss of the fire. He opens his eyes to look, too, and the ugly dead coastline hurts all over again. His mouth twists with it. He does not look at Paul.

"Not very scenic," he says, because all he can say to that is nothing at all. Then, with a sudden weight of intent, like he wants to be understood: "She was dying for a long time. Cut by cut. Even when it all went up, the throes went on forever. That's all this is."

A spasm of tension hitches in his throat, the shadow of a retching cough. He stifles it against the back of a hand, impatiently thumbs the specks of blood away, and settles in again.

"Wish you could've seen her before. You would've loved her."