And Autor sleeps on, cradled in her arms, his own limbs limp and resting on the floor. He's dead to the world already, dreamless and cold, his heart firmly beating against his chest. His face is peaceful now that it's not twisted with grief and anger, nothing marring the smoothness of his skin but tear tracks.

The boy--for that's what he is really, only seventeen--curls into her for warmth, mumbling, and completely unaware of her turmoil.