Alistair's next exhalation lasts a bit longer than he intends. He drags a hand down his face, then turns to Kieran. The boy has his left arm pressed to his side, right hand wrapped around his left elbow, shoulders hunched. It's the same unconscious posture Alistair adopts when he's unsure, and anxious, and trying not to bother anyone.

The knot in his throat tightens. In silence, Alistair settles a hand on Kieran's shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. Kieran looks up.

Very small, his son says, "I don't know what's going to happen."

And the way he says it...it's not like a child railing at his own confusion, or the unfairness of the world. Alistair pauses, then asks, very carefully, "Would you have known? Before...?"

Kieran hitches up his free shoulder, helplessly, as his eyes start to well up.

Not a child railing at the unfairness of the world: one railing against loss, remembering something from scant months ago and fearing he may see its far worse cousin any minute now. Alistair recognizes that, too. He drops to one knee; "Come here," he whispers.

Pretty soon he's got an armful of quietly keening ten-year-old clinging to his shirtfront. He'll follow Cullen's example. He won't say it'll be all right.

But he'll say the next best thing: I'm here. I'm here.