Shaw. Big sister. Carver shudders hard, closing his eyes. He wants to disappear into himself. Stop existing. He wants to cry. He wants Riley.

He clears his throat. Trying to think. "In a village of La Mancha, the, mhmm, name of which I have no desire to call to mind . . ."

The words trail off. Carver goes quiet. He takes one ragged breath, then another. "There lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing . . ."