he who hesitates is toast

She uncurls her fingers, her hand held up between them, and looks down at the necklace, blackened and broken. She imagines him holding it like this, alone in the hut by the lake, thinks of him gently tucking it away into a pocket of the camera case, unable to bear looking at it, unable to get rid of it.

"I was afraid I'd lose it," she whispers. "Or that it would break. I left it in the Quinjet."