He snarls and she moves farther away from him, this time opening the wardrobe and idly shuffling through the contents.

'I had to listen to him, Gene. He was the only one who seemed to know what was really going on. You said it yourself, he's very good at what he does.'

Her hand lights on a speck of blue wool, tucked into his jacket pocket. It's her scarf, the one he gave her at Christmas that very first year. She tugs it free, winding it around her hand.

'If I hadn't listened to him, I'd be like the others. Trapped in purgatory. Forgetting who I was, where I'd come from. Forgetting my little girl.'

Weren't there nights when she wanted to forget? Just for a few minutes. Just so the pain in her heart would subside and she could take a free breath? Weren't there nights with him when she wanted so badly to forget, so she could take some comfort in his arms?

'That's what you wanted, wasn't it? For me to give up and stay? For me to forget, like you?'

Isn't that what she'd asked for at the end? Begged, even pleaded for?