A bag full of God
Dorcas likes to throw words around, like love and best friend and asshole, so that you can't ever quite tell if she's actually pissed or pleased or whatever it is with you or if she's just messing. She tells jokes that are funny because they're true-but-darker, but how deep the black runs isn't something you can ever figure out without asking, and her command of irony is so intricate that even then she might not know how to give a straight answer when she tries. It's not something she intends and not something you should risk telling her about.
Today, though, she's dropped her bells. "You don't know what it's been like without you," she says when he tears after her and engulfs her in the biting air.
"Oh—oh," says Tom, and runs away, like she's always wanted him to.
There are so many things Tom doesn't understand: the way Dorcas loves him but doesn't, and how to make a Horcrux, and why he needs to kill her.
