She's absolutely right, on pretty much all counts, but the idea of trying to move is huge and overwhelming at the moment. As if the slightest shift could lay him bare, expose all the flaws that he's trying so hard to hide. If he stays absolutely still, maybe it won't show so much, maybe it won't be so obvious.

Even talking seems entirely too raw, the sound of his own ruined voice a twinge of deep shame. He'd once had such a nice speaking voice, calm and resonant. The kind of voice people listened to.

But she's close enough now to see that his hands are curled around a pulsing, fleshy thing with more teeth than it should have. Vaguely box-shaped, it makes another snap for whatever is closest to it, but seems otherwise content where it is in its nest of shredded, bloodied glove material.