Somewhere far, far away, there's the sound of a gunshot. Someone whimpers, and the smells of iron and gunpowder mingle too far up his nose, covering the roof of his mouth.

His knees shake, but there's really no choice in the matter of where he's going. Andrew's there, and making perfect sense (or he suspects he does, he can't really hear a word he's saying, but he sounds reassuring), and he's a steady, comfortingly familiar presence. "That, that song, she... How did she...?"