"No-one's talking to me anymore."
I don't know why Steve decided to tell me this.
"How do you know I'm still talking to you?", I said as I looked up at him.
Steve took a seat next to me, and his body seemed to sag wearily. "They blame me. I know they do. That proxy was after me, and now Lianne is suffering. Her infection's still not going, and her fever's only suppressed by medication. Her arm'll never move properly again."
His eyes glistened. "And they're right. It's my fault."
I now have a twenty-seven year old man weeping openly beside me, and I have no idea what to say here. None.
The fact is, it isn't his fault. It's the fault of a dead man.
The fault of a man whose head was cracked in like an eggshell, and whose blood and brains seeped out onto the floor, and whose mask slipped away just enough to reveal a face, and a blankly staring eye. Blood for blood, I guess.
But Steve's really torn up. Lianne's still requiring a lot of care, and we're not going to be out of here any time soon.
Roland says he saw movement in the shadows outside Lianne's ward last night.