Strange, how the memory is cast in an entirely different light when she looks from the outside in. The soft toys that, at the time, she thought were a warm gesture or reassurance. The way that he sits, and listens to her cry. Isaac has no idea how to handle children, and it's worse that he thinks that she is one. She was sixteen when her dad was murdered. Eventually, he spoke about counting the cost.

Jone's appearance doesn't put her at ease. Abby reaches out to take the handle, and pauses.

She can see herself around the door. It's haunting, being reminded of that gaping hole of grief that had opened up inside of her, even though it never went away. She had to learn to grow around it.

"I don't know." She pauses. Isaac has opened his mouth as if to say something, and doesn't.

"He won't stop following me."

But maybe better him than somebody else? Abby can't decide.