"Neil." Goodnight's voice was soft, gentle even, but it had a firm edge behind it. "I see what you're doing, son."

He knew that look: the look of pushing something so far down that one hoped it would just stop existing. He also knew that was a quick way to an ulcer, or to a dozen other unpleasant things. Like holding a gun and realizing it had an empty chamber.

"Bein' frustrated, even bein' hurt, is fine. Maybe you can't even do anything about it - maybe fighting him on it won't fix anything. But forgetting it isn't going to do you any favors either."