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His face changes.

There.

That is the wound.

Not enough.

Maybe some ugly part of me wanted to hurt him back.

I find I can live with that.

Mercy and I walk outside.

No one stops us.

The sun is higher now, catching chrome and polished hearse windows. Festival workers laugh near the vendor lane. Somebody tests a speaker. A child runs past carrying a plastic skeleton almost as tall as he is.

Normal life.

Again.

I am beginning to resent its commitment to continuing.

Mercy stays beside me.

We make it halfway to the School of the Dead before she speaks.

“That was cruel.”

I shrug. My shoulders feel numb. “Which part?”

“You know which part.”

“I asked.”

“You deserved an honest answer.”

“I got one.”

“No, sugar.” Mercy’s voice is hard. “You got the answer he thought would hurt you enough to leave.”

I stop walking.

“Does the reason change what he said?”

“No.”

“Does it un-fuck Trixie?”

Mercy winces. “No.”

“Does it make me less humiliated?”

“No.”

“Then I don't care why he did it.”

That is almost true.