Like this, Arthur reminded Malachi of a petulant child more than a man. Yelling in his face about - about being broken, both of them, and that was that? They were broken, so they had to stay and be broken together? Without even an attempt to fix anything, they were but shattered, stained glass, depicting fractions of images that would never again form a clear vision. And that was that.

He sounded like a child trying to convince him not to take his favorite toy away, or not to sit with the other kids, because the other kids were too good for people like them.

“And what are you going to do, Arthur?”

Malachi couldn’t even think to say a word about the rest of it. Had Arthur never been loved by anyone at all? To Malachi, love was – love was like God, all-consuming and powerful, and it needed nothing other than faith. He didn’t know the details of Arthur’s life, but he knew him. And for Malachi, that was enough.

The doctor might have raised his voice as a weapon, but Malachi's scratchy voice was level.

“Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”