His head is bowed, penitent, and she is struck with the sudden
need to cause a reaction, any reaction. She wants to shake him
up, to break that iron control.

"Get the fuck up, Nottingham. I'm tired of your bullshit."

He remains kneeling, and she wants to kick him, to make him bleed
for the confusion that tears her apart. She is tired of the
dreams. She is tired of wanting something just beyond her grasp.

She is tired of him.

But nothing compares to the exhaustion caused by the weight of
the world she bears on her arm.