He doesn't.

And then he does.

And then he sees it all unfolding in his head, the conversation overlaid with the reality—you'd need just the right spot—

(flare of headlights on asphalt turned to blackness)

—out of the way, where no one would look until you were finished—

(the wheel spinning one way in his hands, the world spinning another)

—a steep incline next to the road, above or below it, the work is the same either way—

(couldn't see her, couldn't see anything, but he could hear her scream)

—you've got such a morbid sense of humour sometimes, Obadiah, I swear.



"...Jesus," he says, his voice tight, his hands white-knuckled and shaking on the arms of his chair. "Jesus Christ, Stane."