He may as well be comforted by a statue of the Virgin Mary.

A number of little disgusts ripple through him- at himself for the reaction, at Mulcahy for his silence, at whoever beat the softness out of this man who always seemed to guard it the way a man in the dark guards a sputtering candle. That he wants to shout at Mulcahy again- do something, do anything, remind me that you're flesh and blood. But he won't. Mulcahy moves like granite these days, and it's up to Hawk, again, to do anything.

Quietly, "did that other me tell you that I loved Trapper?"