[ At first, Klaasje says nothing. His flat, matter of fact accounting of his tragedy hangs in the air like slow falling snow. Her expression is still and composed as, perhaps, one of those silly pieces of art she used to study, her eyes soft and dark as graveyard soil. ]

You're right.

That's the real self-indulgence, feeling sorry for yourself for your good luck. If you really meant it, you'd give it up. But no one ever does.

[ She leans forward, fingers catching at the couch's arm rest to keep her steady. She holds Sigma in her gaze like she's cupped him in her palms, like he's the only thing in the room that's ever been worth looking at. ]

I'm sorry. That's fucked up, the things they did to you.