It's an old scar. She just smiles, sadly, and tells him to keep the music down at least. Right at the saddest part of the song. Who made you? Some of us grow up in fire, some of us in rain, but not one of us is born angry. She's just selfish enough that she can't hear him, sitting there -- he's still a child, his face is so soft and so hard -- letting the music speak. "I want your love," sings the song. "I need your love..." She just wants it quieter. Like God ever looked at the tiger and saw what She made, and just went back to bed.
And if that did happen, what would the tiger do? Miss Her. Miss Her and Hate Her. Norman hasn't even escaped yet and it's going to destroy them both; Dylan started out on the outside and he wants her to love him just as much as he wants to take her down. It's a rare love triangle in which nobody really owns anybody else.
Emma's pet tank goes in a little backpack. She leads him to the very spot -- majestic, the Pacific Northwest looks like a beer commercial, every time -- and he smiles. It's a poem and it's very relevant to our world today, but it's not the kind of thing Miss Watson would understand.
Halfway up the mountain, Emma starts coughing. It's thick and sludgy and altogether terrifying, so Norman orders a halt.
Emma: "My dad taught me to meditate. You see yourself rise up out of your body, past the town, into the golden light of the whole universe. You realize how small you are, and how closely we are connected to the larger thing."
How you get to a loving universe, in my experience, goes similarly: Tigers and monsters happen, sure. But what made those things? Bigger tigers, bigger monsters. And so on, forever. So it's a dead end, a hallway that ends nowhere, a clock wound up to breaking and slowly leaking entropy. You go looking for fear, you're going to find it.
So that means, then, that you have to go the other way: Determinism is a love story between you and the entirety of space and time and it does not -- technically, absolutely, by definition -- get sexier than that. You are held, lovingly, at the center of something so infinite and so massively complex that it concretizes words like infinity and complexity. Makes them actual. It's a stark light but a bright one, a compassionately dispassionate one, burning bright: All the tigers under it aren't monsters and never could be. We were only ever tigers.
She wrinkles her nose at herself, giggling, and sits. But over the next rise he sees it: A huge pot field, big as a lake. And then the tenders, big guys with guns: Dylan's new army. She runs with him, fast as she can, for a very long time. Her panicked breath, wheezing, takes them to the very shed they were looking for, but they keep running. This part goes for a while. They ford a stream and keep running, all the way back to her very recognizable, bright orange VW Bug. Another thing Norma would probably appreciate.