"Fuck you." Those are the first words out of Foster's mouth. Heavy, not wet with emotion but thick like they're clogging his throat, he regurgitates them as one expels a poison from his wracked and wretched body.

"Fuck you, fuck you." But once it's out, once he's purged the last bitter traces of bile, he's free. Free to speak, to think, to lay bare his feelings (or 'feelings'), scorched and raw and barren as they are.

"I won't."