Sometimes at night, when Mark isn’t drunk enough to forget the day’s work, he has the urge to pray. He hasn’t believed in there being anything out there to pray to in years, but he dimly remembers his childhood awe of God and the comfort of being able to confess your sins to a faceless presence. The things he’s done, the things he’s watched, they weigh on him. He knows they don’t weigh on Renward. Renward is innocent.