They are being watched.

The prickles that run down the backs of their necks are old friends now; their arms naked without their covering of goose-bumps. Neither is what they once were; both older and harder, and a little more like the father who tried to keep them from the darkness and failed so wonderfully.

They forgave him that.

Or will do, or are doing, she laughs, but it's not the laugh it once was, and the girl she was then is long gone. He is silent. He'll be silent for a long time yet.

There's blood on their hands.