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Summary
“I do know what to do,” she moans.
The first few flicks of his lighter produce nothing more than sparks, but Wolfwood gets a flame going and puffs at his cigarette until the tip catches. Exhaling smoke out the window, he says, “Let him go?” Then, at her horrified expression, “For fuck’s sake, pipsqueak, what d’you want me to say? Six months of this and no change. It's like watchin’ you playing with a corpse. That's not Vash anymore. Barely even fuckin’ looks like him.”
“We can't just give up on him,” she says. Sinking down on the edge of Wolfwood's bed, she wrings her hands. “There has to be something we can try.”
Meryl has always been the sort to act first, think later; but the stakes for this decision are high, and she's paralyzed by indecision. All she knows is one thing: Vash needs her help.