I stop, eyes burning. Erin holds her stomach like she might be sick. Nick just stares. Nothing else, just staring. I hate it. The silence hurts like a gaping wound filled with every little thing in this city: the quiet murmurs of the bank; the howling of feral dogs; a gunshot far, far in the distance. The smallest things that let us know we’re not the only ones left alive.

They should be doing something, anything. Walking away, yelling at me, dragging me to the side of the building to throw me off. They could do anything, and I’d understand. Anything except just stand there.

A terrible whining noise rises up in my throat, small and pathetic like a kicked animal.

“I know I should say sorry,” I whimper, “but that’s not going to make this right. There’s nothing I can do to make it okay, but I want to do something to fix it anyway. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Because I trust you, and if anyone can figure out what I can do, it’s you.”

Nothing. Oh God, there’s nothing. James 5:16—Confess your faults one to another, and pray for another, that ye may be healed. I don’t feel healed. I don’t feel anything, I just feel hollow.

It’s Erin who speaks first.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Benji.”

I whisper, “I know.”

“I mean, you’re right,” she says. “Sorry isn’t going to change anything. But I still want to hear it, you know?”

It doesn’t want to come up. I dig my feet into the gravel of the roof and force it out the way I pulled flesh from my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She doesn’t say it’s okay because it’s not. I want to look away, but I have to face what I’ve done. “I don’t—I don’t know what else to say. This is…”

“A lot,” I finish.

“Yeah.”

Nick pulls out his notepad, the same notepad he had in the meeting room, and a pen from his pocket.

He starts to write.

“How sure are you that Theodore knew?” he asks, not looking up.

“I was headed out to confront him about it. I’d bet a lot of things on it, but…” Like I wasn’t heading out to tear him to pieces. “Why?”

“Because I’m sure.” Nick crumples up a sheet and throws it on the ground. “That son of a bitch.”

“Did you know him?”

“Well enough.” Of course he did. There’s no way soldiers the same age wouldn’t know each other. “I have an idea, but I need you to trust me. Do you?”

“Yes.” I don’t have to think about it for a second. “Just tell me what to do.”