I never thought that it still tormented him.
Of course, I knew that he was still hurting after my disappearance, he had told me.
But I never knew that hurt still rankled, even a decade later.
Now I am standing in his bedroom, wondering what to say to him, when he awakes. My poor friend lies on his, exhausted with tonight's events. I know his wound still hurts; he need not say all those empty words. I know what Evans has done.
I turn the little slip of paper over my hand and then, almost instinctively, throw it into the fire.
Some demons are better of dead.