He hasn't told her everything. The guilt is there, gnawing mildly on his ankles like a reminder that he's promised to talk to her, but he also has to wonder if twenty-five children's souls isn't enough for one night. And yet, his night terrors had only grown worse from Bolivia. They existed long before that. He's not sure if this is the time to talk about that, but he feels like he should give her something else for being so honest. "Nightmares, they were from before Bolivia," he offers roughly. "And they are worse because of LA." He breathes in deeply, settling his heart to a steady, infrequent thumping against his chest.

"I killed our teammate," he says, without emotion in his voice. "Someone we fought with for years. Our friend."