He's stopped moving the mirror, sits in a sharp forward slant. His face resting in his hand, his gaze craning toward the dark corners of Carver's room. Another time, watching the varying expressions steal over the other man's face as he shifts his own mirror around would be funny: William notes this abstractly.

He's to the point of asking Carver if he can't find a light—there must be something—when the question brings him up short. “No, it's—” It's his shoulder that he'd hurt. The words dry up in his throat. William sits up, curls both hands into fists, ignoring the twist of pain in his shoulder. “I don't feel anything,” he says—it comes out confessional, his voice wavering.

He adjusts the mirror so it's on Carver's face, so William can catch his unschooled reaction.

He lifts his left hand, palm toward the mirror. Takes a breath and does the same with his right.