The sound of her breathing--measured, slow, and not too deep--steadies his own. Autor listens, and nearly bites through his lip.

The boy melts into a sun jar-free chair, turning his toes in. "Shit," he whispers, clutching the back of his neck and lowering his head. "You're not even up for an argument."

It's between what have I done and what I should have been that he chokes another apology out. "Is there anything I can do for you?"