He's gone. He has to be. The certainty of it settles heavily into Greta's gut, like a stone, because she knows Jack well enough to know he'd never write anything to Saoirse that would hurt her like this, not on purpose. Not unless it was a farewell letter, which she can easily believe he would have thought to compose beforehand.

Her own vision starts to blur, mostly in sympathy -- for Saoirse, for anyone else who knew him, for his poor father -- though also, a little, with regret that she'd never got to know him better. But if she had, it would be even more of a struggle to hold herself together for Saoirse's sake.

She sits, settling Saoirse's shaking body into her lap, and rocks her. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs, stroking her hair back from her hot, tear-stained face. She says other things, too, her words quiet and soothing and probably meaningless right now, but she doesn't know what else to do but tell Saoirse to cry as much as she needs to, and that it will be all right, and that she's there for her. She wants to add that she'll always be there, because she wants it to be true, but they both know better.