Mr. Dickerson’s memory of the event is still finely-tuned, distilled by adrenaline and overlaid by the slippery panic of his familiar in the thick of it. Abby’s eyes gone wide, a sodium flash of anger through his core at Vanya’s nearness. Pure.

Scrubbing the evidence off his hands with sand afterwards.

His nails need more work, he sees now, as he twists at that knot. Overdue for a trim. One of the last things he’ll do before they return. He lets silence unspool for a while, weighing his options, writhing nowhere while the wedge of his head stifles underfoot.

“You know that it wasn’t or you wouldn’t keep asking.”

There the scab tugs free of its seam, and he presses it down again.

“You could be happy here, were you open to it. Records show Wardens can be cleansed. There are people in Riftwatch who love you without condition.”