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"You fucked it up this time."
Ben was supposed to be different. Ben was different, only far too human, selfish and cruel, and sad – too sad.
"Richard?"
He’s vulnerable, alone in the dark, and the name he calls isn’t right, never was. But Richard can’t even remember the first.
"You got it wrong."
"What?" Ben slurs, stirs, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the tent, the dry taste of death in his mouth, a grave shadow moving over him. He doesn’t even feel the pinprick.
"All wrong," he repeats. And after a moment, "I’m sorry."
Ben never hears this apology.
-fin