Autor clings to her fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder and fisting his hands in her shirt like a child. His mouth drops open on a soft, keening cry, and he gives himself over to ragged, choked sobbing. He trembles in her hold, crying himself out. He feels like a cold, wet rag being wrung out again and again.

Worse still, in his heart of hearts, he knows she's right. He just doesn't want to--just can't accept it. Dr. Lecter was right, the boy thinks groggily. I used to be better than this.

"You've made me... weak," Autor whispers to his friend in a croak. Then he sags against her, collapsing, his body unable to bear the abuse he's given it over the past week. His head thunks against her shoulder, his grip loosens, and he starts falling, glasses askew.