As soon as they were through the door, the nurse started asking questions and offering sympathetic platitudes for Grey's current state. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for a reply, her eyes flickering nervously toward Curtis' looming presence.

"He doesn't talk," Curtis said flatly. Wouldn't, couldn't. He'd never known why, had never asked. Someone knew, Curtis was sure. Probably Gilliam. Probably Wilford, the bastard.

"Oh," she said, frowning as she jotted something down on her file. "Are you his...?"

"Friend," Curtis said, even though that wasn't entirely true. There wasn't really a word for what they'd all been to each other. "I'm his friend."