His breath hitches. He doesn't cry but part of him wants to, badly. You did just fine, Pope murmurs, and lays beside him in all that filth. Carver pulls his bound hands to his chest, rocking slightly, trying to remember how to breathe.

But he didn't break. Pope said so. And the commander is never wrong.

"I don't..." he swallows. Closes his eyes tight. "I don't think I can walk, sir," he manages. "I'm sorry."