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It was four days into wallowing in his own cowardly self-pity that Grace had the thought for the first time.
I should've died with the others.
The instant it entered his mind, everything else ground to an abrupt, blood-chilled halt. All the unbearably heavy things that had been building into an unstoppable storm of grief and injustice and horrible, betraying love, the newly-recovered memories of lights buzzing in a too-quiet room, his hands and feet scrambling for purchase as he tried to climb the walls like a caged rabid animal, morgue-cold air burning in his lungs and desperate screams and pleas burning in his throat and the last stolen look at his home he would ever get burning in his eyes, in his flimsy memory, in the fleeting silhouettes that haunted his dreams of people he hated and places he adored and all the tiny moments throughout his life that he didn't think mattered at the time because they were neither notably good or nightmarishly bad but whose absence he now found inescapable as he tried in vain to put the puzzle of his mind back together.
OR: Grace's mental decline after remembering how he got on the Hail Mary and parting ways with Rocky.
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