He weighed the toque in his hand as she gave it to him, his ears willfully ignoring the voice, coming from everywhere at once.
Clair's toque. Goddamn ski hat. Just giving it to him, something that she'd worn the whole time? So she was really going to die. It wasn't a good thought. He squeezed the toque in his hand.
She said stuff, stuff about how she wished she'd intervened, stuff about being a terrible friend. He knew what she meant. Join the club, he wanted to say, but his words just stuck in his mouth and he could tell she wasn't going to be around for much longer. Let her say her piece.
And then, she was just gone. Her body was still there, but Clair was gone. Just like Richard, like Trevor who lay just a little distance away.
She hadn't done anything wrong. They just all had made mistakes. It was the Sheriff, right? The game. All of that. Right?... He didn't know what to think, and he couldn't tell her anything now.
With a trembling hand, he reached over, closed her eyes. It seemed like the right thing to do. He reached over a little farther, did the same for Trevor. At some point after that he found himself standing. Everything seemed like a haze.
He wandered towards the exit, his hand still shaking, the flashlight's beam dancing along the walls. Then, he just ran.
((Samuel Wilson continued in Grasping at Straws