[Get off, Rex. Spilling the dog into a furry puddle only half on his lap, Chase leans his head into Carla's, close enough to smell old traces of blood and sweat in her hair. Or maybe that's imagination, a confusion of the senses thrown up by the state of her skin. He reaches to pull her in a little more.]

You're a few months into it. You don't know what something better is yet.

[He catches his teeth against his lip, voice lowering to match hers, soft enough to be conspiratorial, although it's not. It's an admission.]

There's something to be said for an overprescription of morphine when there's nothing to be salvaged but a couple of weeks of pain. You're stuck here whatever I care enough to do, and you've got options. There's a chance something better might turn out to be more than a shot to the head.