"Good," she says, like glass cracking, "You're the only one of us who still had a chance to make it work."

She still has an arm loose over his shoulder. It falls across the back of his neck as she burrows into his chest and the pillow behind them, tucking herself up into the smallest configuration she can make of her small self. Her hand has nothing to grip but his opposite shoulder, and it grips as hard as her other hand does at the pillow, nails digging in like anchors. She makes a bad, low sound.

"Fuck." A hard, tearing inhale, the water rushing back from the shoreline. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!"

She cries fiercely. She's always angry when she cries, because she hates the way it feels, all the hot, convulsive loss of control. So she tries to get it all over with as quickly as she can, and that means sobbing like a knife going in and out, her face flushed and ugly and sticking to John's chest.

"Those fucking cowards," she hisses, desolate, somewhere in the midst of it, "Those worthless fucking coward assholes."