The bruises won’t matter; in fact Sam wants them to show, vivid against his skin. A mottling of blue and black. He wants there to be evidence of this, this frantic, desperate, destructive abandon that comes over them whenever they’re alone. When the cold glint of reality is softened by a dull motel lamp, and the outside world is muffled by the moth-eaten curtains, drawn tight across the window.

Like this, held in the hushed breath of night, they can pretend, of only for a while, that reality doesn’t exist.