|Chapter 2: Leper's Ground|
He heard her moving; and the fear that she would walk out of the cabin, turn her back on him forever, wrenched at him. But she was not leaving. She retreated to the chair, seated herself there as if something in her had broken. Her hands covered her face as she hunched forward, and her shoulders jerked. Yet she made no sound. At her mother's deathbed, she had learned to keep her weeping to herself. When she spoke, her voice shook.
"Why do I end up killing everybody I care about?"
Her grief hurt him like the raw acid of his guilt. This, too, was on his head. He wanted to descend from the hammock, go to her, take her in his arms; but he had forfeited that privilege. There was nothing he could do except fight back his own rue and protest, "It's not your fault. You tried. I should've told you. You would've saved me if you could."