Both, in their own way, thinking, This is hell—the absolute loss borne from all those slivers of perfection that passed unnoticed, unrelished. In true dark, there is no gauging of time. It moseys along and dawdles and hints at the horror of eternity. At length, Lawrence folds the backpack into a pillow and settles down beside the bones of Gloria, whose shattered heart quits beating.
Dammit, Crouch...
