[In the back room of Fredbears; Evan is laying on a cleared table, head wrapped tightly in bandages that were already soaking through. Henry comes in, opening the door.]
HENRY: Mike, I called 911. Is- is he... okay?
MICHAEL: ...As much as he can be okay with a crushed skull.
HENRY: [wincing] Yeah, stupid question.
[MICHAEL stares at Evan, hands trembling. No one else was here. He'd screamed at the group to leave earlier, and they'd all flinched back before scrambling out the door. He raises a hand to his chest, face contorting, as if in pain.]
MICHAEL: Henry. What's- what am I feeling?
HENRY: I- huh?
MICHAEL: It's- it's like my hearts been pulled out of my chest. Like I can barely speak, because my throat keeps closing.
HENRY: ...Guilt, Michael. You're feeling guilt.
[MICHAEL laughs, almost hysterically.]
MICHAEL: Guilt. Fucking guilt. That's a new one. I've never- I've never felt guilt before.
[MICHAEL grips the front of his tank top, shuddering.]
MICHAEL: It fucking hurts, man. God- Henry, make it stop. Make it stop.
HENRY: I- I can't, Mike. Everyone feels this way when they do something bad.
[MICHAEL hunches over, choking, voice breaking.]
MICHAEL: How do you people live like this?
[Henry gently pats his back, offering his sympathies. Even still, he does not cry. His eyes burn, but tears never escape. Not now, not when Evan is pulled away into an ambulance, not on the drive to the hospital, or when they wait while Evan has surgery, or when he sits by his bedside, day in, day out. Michael only stares blankly, as if not able to comprehend what was happening.]
[He never, ever cries.]
