I don't let go. If anything, I hold on tighter. It's hard not to see the kid I fought beside, because so many pieces are still there, and watching him break down makes the pain in my shoulder seem like nothing. Wordlessly I pull him forward by the hand I won't let go of. I clap my arm across his back, my hand at his neck, pulling him in tight. He can disagree, I expect him to disagree, but at least he's listening.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat that has nothing to do with being held aloft by it, and blink rapidly for a moment. When I'm sure my voice will be steady, I speak.

"It's not your fault."