[When June hears his voice, she acts on instinct: she tosses her communicator away from her like it's a small, biting animal, then throws one of her shawls on top of it for good measure, muffling the sound. She leaves the room. She doesn't listen. She doesn't want to hear.

She comes back to it an hour or so later, armed with rationalizations, and this time she does listen - not out of a desire to face what she's done, but because, she tells herself, what she did doesn't really matter. He's back, isn't he? He's alive. He's not a mindless, transformed creature. No harm done. And if this is a more fragile rationalization than usual, one so, so easily disproved by her own traumatizing first-hand experience with turning and mindlessness and subsequent death, that's fine, because she can lock those feelings away in a box for the duration of this conversation. And when she needs to bring them back out, it'll be William's words that'll get locked away in their place - all the conflicting details of this story carefully compartmentalized and never allowed to comingle. It's fine. She can make it work. It's fine.

But still, when she finally responds, her voice is strained.]

We couldn't have. I'm not a fighter, and you-- you had a knife, William. You're a murderer. You had a better chance of defending yourself than I did. If you think you can pin any of this on me--