"I don't berate myself."

This is the danger in giving half an answer, though he is caught somewhere between at this point: reluctant to say more, but having said too much, and poorly at that. His hands fold together, cracked knuckles curled into a fist, pressed into opposite palm. The fingers of his left hand have gone stiff with cold. It's a grounding thing, something Ellis holds fast to as he looks back to her.

"What would you have me do, Wysteria?"