“I mean,” He began to speak with a crack in his voice, “How well can I be when I get turned into a cat, covered in burns, go missin’ for a month only to come back and my fath-” Thomas stopped himself, feeling his emotions begin to get the better of him. He could hear his own voice; the volume and hurt in it rising. He didn’t want to do this. Not now.

“Sorry, Miss Potts,” Thomas said with defeat, “Yeah, I’m sure. Ain’t worth beatin’ myself up over.” He shrugged, “How’s the shop?”

Death was inevitable, he supposed. And he was going to be the man of the house. He couldn’t grieve. He had to be strong.

Right?

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