It was like going to a detention, or going to one's manager's office without a sense of the reason that the meeting was called, and never mind that he asked her when he could come over in the first place. He was in trouble, maybe not the trouble that resulted in one writing lines, but the sort of trouble that sent other men to asylums. He had not been honest with Angie about how he was feeling, because part of loving her had meant that Cash didn't want her to feel shackled to him. But he couldn't lie anymore, he had to talk to people, and he did not trust his ability to get through it on his own.

He waited until the healer left and until he'd done some semblance of eating the dinner the cook prepared to take the floo network to Angie's, still with that distinct sense of an impending scolding. He stepped out of the fireplace, brushing soot off of his jacket and to the brick as he did so, and smiled thinly at her.

"Hi," Cash said, aware that he was being studied. His hands had been shaking off and on for days, even as he was trying to make a good-faith attempt at eating consistent meals. His coat smelled like cigarette smoke, because he was smoking again. There were persistent shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped from that same sense of foreboding, or maybe guilt.