Jason knows enough to hear what he's not saying, and he looks down at the vine, at the noose, imagines it around a skinny ankle or a throat and Christ, he was only fourteen when he died, and he was all alone, to look up and see another child standing over you...

He's breathing hard, the scar that runs almost the length of his scalp throbbing in nauseating little pulses, and try as he might, quick as he flew there, Jason can't seem to come back down. "Aren't you angry?" he says, breathless. "All the things that happened to me, I'm so angry, I - " Jason swallows. "Aren't you angry?"