"And the law won't do nothing about it. They are too busy 'respecting' those fiends and their 'civil rights.' Well, what about our rights? Our rights to be safe in our own neighborhoods, our right to our own blood?" Jason shakes his head, because WTF, and Orry leans closer: "Look. Officially, the church can't condone what you did. You took the lives of four women." Jason nods, sadly. A beast, whose body is a mysterious country, with dark rivers you'll never see, a strange moon that calls in a song without words. "Women who had tainted themselves and their race, but still: human women. Hey." He motions Jason over, and Jason flows toward him like water.

"We do recognize that even though your methods may have been flawed, your intentions were pure." Jason swears he has no idea -- and honestly he doesn't, shooting him that hilarious "Look I really am this stupid" look he gives you sometimes -- what Orry is talking about. But Orry's not singing to him in words. "That's smart. Don't admit to anything." He opens his briefcase and smiles conspiratorially. "The Church has started up a fund for your defense." He passes a pamphlet from the Church through the bars. "In the meantime, here's something to help you pass the time. You are a brave soldier, Jason Stackhouse." Brave, and wise, and kind, and good. A soldier in an army that doesn't hate, but manages to love so fiercely that it burns away all the fear and nastiness, all the darkness of the night, searing off like snow in sunlight.

Jason's heart is too big to write the blank page by himself. He loves too much to do anything on his own. It's not that he wants someone to tell him a story, better or worse, it's that he needs someone to tell the story with. His agency is lost and unrecovered. Tell him just enough truth, mix just enough language into your song, and he'll be lost in it: the desire to share in the story overrides his judgment, because he has no judgment. He leaps before looking, but only if you soothe his heart. The story they are telling now rests on the very foundations of what Jason must believe: they both think he's Drew. They are holding an entire conversation based on the untrue fact that Jason is Drew. And it would be a lot harder to believe, if Drew and Jason weren't so close to begin with. Orry Dawson touches his hand, sweetly: like a father, like an older brother. Like Eddie. "God loves you. You will be saved!"

That's the story now: how a murder was redeemed. Not the women, not Gran and the fangbangers, but the real murder. Because there are places where he knows he's not Drew, but even in those places, Eddie's blood is still on his hands, and in his throat. So, make the world bigger: Tell him it wasn't murder, but love. Tell him hate is part of everything, consumed in light and connected to the living world. Tell him Amy didn't die in vain, but only brought him closer to the light; tell him to love the enemy. Until they are ash.