“Don’t touch me.” she says, scarcely audible. Rachel tries to hold back her sadness— seeping in uncontrollable drops onto the white napkin neatly tucked in a triangle by her empty plate.

James withdraws his hands and braces himself for what he expects she’ll say. It was your fault plays over in his mind like a silent movie of vivid memories, portraying his own guilt and strangling grief in brief flashes of regret. Silence lingers between them like an unsteady train barreling toward a catastrophic end.

“I hate you.” She says at last.