He shifted (the stitches pulled, he could feel the thread stretching in his skin), but other than a tightening around his mouth, he made no protest as he lifted himself high enough to pull the roll under himself.

"At least it wasn't snow," he muttered as he settled, fingers finding the finding the blade and slipping around the handle, rubbing the steel.

He exhaled, sinking onto the roll, and into himself, a weight stealing over him. Closed his eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Max."

This wasn't going to be pleasant for either of them. And it was his fault.