His hands tremble -- a stutter in his breath a giveaway of his uncertainty in how to respond. He swallows, the lump in his throat like a stone going down, gaze flickering from the floor to meet her eyes but only for a moment. He can’t hold it. “ I can explain -- ” but even that is said with doubt. Somewhere along the way, Jackson was told he would have help, but now, he fears to ask. Waking each morning, scrambling in fear away from his own sheets, only to find that the moisture he feared was blood is only his own sweat -- that has become each and every day; so frequent that his panic slowly turns to irritation. In truth, he looks at the blood on his hands and frowns, not for fear that it was something he did, but fear that he simply doesn’t remember. Control isn’t coming easily, not that anyone expected it would. “ I don’t think it was...” pause. He doesn’t think it was him, but he just shakes his head. Honesty. “ I don’t remember. ”