He moves ahead of them, attention at once scattered and focused. The air is starting to darken with smoke, though that's no sure sign that the fire has spread this far. He glances back, catches both their faces, Tom tired and drawn and Neil bruised and filthy, walking somehow in spite of everything.

God, I'm so sorry.

"This way," he says, motioning down towards where he thinks the side entrance is. If he can focus on that, on getting them all out of here alive, he won't have to think about his bloody hands, about how much he doesn't even feel like he belongs here with them.

But he knows now: he doesn't belong out there anymore, either.