No, he thinks. And, though he hates himself for it, his hands betray him, clinging tighter, turning Ren's t-shirt into knots. But there's another question, too: What the hell is waiting in that pile for Ren?

"Might as well get it over," he says, forcing himself to detach, and not to say anything more like she's fragile, or she wasn't well, or it was a difficult time, and God, he knows the psychology, has written essays on it.

He sits down on the bed, still dead pale, eyes bright, face blotched red. "You want to pick the next one? Share the wealth."