All this work and no reward. Never an end to it. They can't or won't help themselves, and they're never grateful. It takes and takes and takes and takes from him, the hungry dead and dying strip layers of skin and flesh, fingers wear to the bone, he gives until there is nothing else left to take.

He'd felt like if only he could act, could fight, could strike first, that all his loved ones would be safe. Now, what can he do? The grave is occupied, the pinprick of light inside doesn't fill it all the way, and Darcy wraps himself around-

And wakes up.