[Parker got up and started to pace, her bare feet clamping against the rug. The shirt was too loose on her, well worn and she kept touching it and stroking it quickly. When I die I'll leave you all my shirts. She swallowed, and kept pacing. It had been six months since she had quit smoking, but all she wanted now was fucking cigarette. She threw open a drawer and shuffled through it, but apparently her room had been updated during her stay.]

I was fucking leaving. Leaving the Centre, leaving the fucking hunt... just leaving. I was going to go to Portland and actually build something or do something. My Daddy came over and told me they'd let me go and the next day they shot Tommy with my gun on my porch.