There's a long moment where Molotov doesn't speak at all, just holds Clementine and looks at her, and then she stands and goes to the edge of the water, taking the body with her. She kneels in the mud and scoops one hand in the water, letting it run down over Clementine's cheeks as she gently wipes away the grime from that smooth, soft skin.

It takes her a moment to clean the girl up, to stroke her hair down and comb it out with gloved fingers. When she's done, Molotov takes the body away from the river to where scraggly flowers are trying to grow in the dirt, tiny and yellow and delicate. She takes Clementine's supplies, because she can hear the body collectors coming, the whirring overhead, and then passes off the pink bow and arrows to Tom.

She kisses his cheek before sprinting and disappearing up a tree, heading away to deal with it, and she doesn't think she needs to tell Tom that she'll be back shortly.

High in a tree, a few hundred yards into the woods, she faces the trunk and presses her face to her knees so that no camera can see the tightness escaping her body, the rawness of whatever bit of her heart or soul was still tender enough to hurt so much from this.