[He's outside in the shade of a willow tree, sitting upon a granite bench that doesn't yet have the patina of the muggy south. The book is laid open on his lap, the words stark black on off white pages. But they are only words, lines and arches made of ink or graphite, and he closes it before he responds. He made Chloe promise, can he do less than he demanded of her? No. Not now. Perhaps much later, if ever. He tucks the book between his arm and body, fingers curled possessively around the spine as he heads back inside the house.]