[He thinks, for a moment, of cave-ins, thinks this is what it must feel like to get pinned under a few tons of rock, this crushing inability to breathe, or move his hands, which have gone still where he was marking dashed lines on a section of fabric with a charcoal pencil.
Then I can rest. When the work is done. Ned doesn't - he thinks - mean quite the same things by it that Marsh does, but it hardly matters.]
I understand.
[Pressed out of him like oil, like a threadbare prayer flag fluttering on his sigh when he finally lets his breath out.]
[Spam]
Then I can rest. When the work is done. Ned doesn't - he thinks - mean quite the same things by it that Marsh does, but it hardly matters.]
I understand.
[Pressed out of him like oil, like a threadbare prayer flag fluttering on his sigh when he finally lets his breath out.]