Aunamee could help him. He could help him by offering a hand -- or he could stay there, keeping him company as he struggles for purchase in the mud. Isn't that something a friend would do? Isn't that something a father would do?

But he doesn't. Aunamee's anger is petulant like a child's. It pulls him backwards, step by step, until the boy's groans are nearly indistinguishable from the wind. It is an act that has nothing to do with manipulation, nothing to do with strategy. It is pettiness, plain and simple. It is the ugly structure beneath the mask.

Digest thoughts, he thinks again and again, like a broken record. Digest thoughts like you digested me.

He does not even say goodbye.