[ Carver just nods and returns to his work. Talking would mean acting social, checking his reactions constantly, and that shit's exhausting. He isn't fit for company anymore, not beyond the circle of his people - a circle that grows smaller with every death and every passing day. Pope's gone. So are Bossie and Turner, Powell, so many others. He fears, deep down, that one day he'll forget their names. That he'll start to say them and stumble.
That would be unforgivable, he thinks.
He cooks, in the meantime. It's something real, something concrete he can focus on.
no subject
That would be unforgivable, he thinks.
He cooks, in the meantime. It's something real, something concrete he can focus on.
Eventually: ]
They're about ready now.