A deep groan comes out of Edgar as though dragged up his throat by a string. It isn't for theatrical effect; it's an involuntary sound of frustration and balked anger and pain.

"How?" It's barely a word at first, more a modulation of the anguished groan. "How do you not --"

(I should hate you, man. I don't but I should.)

One hand turns loose of Max, closes into a fist, opens again, rakes through his own hair and clutches a handful.

(I mean what does that fuckin make me, if I don't?)

"What he did," and the words come out slowly, struggling, "that doesn't go away."