On the contrary, Chilton was probably on the right track. Godot hated sympathy. It was an automatic reflex, rarely meant with any amount of sincerity. As expected as a "bless you" after a sneeze, a please or a thank you. It was empty sentiment, one he had received so often during his recovery it now meant nothing at all.

His fingers were tightening around his cup, just barely.

"Greater? Hardly. There is nothing great about me now," he murmured. "I rose from the dead by the slimmest of margins. My body is a heap of junk. It takes a pile of pills every morning, noon, and night to keep me chugging along."

He glanced at his cup of coffee, at the black liquid swirling within.

"Those who emerge from such bodily peril are called 'survivors' for lack of anything else. To win life back from the grasp of death is meant to be its own solace. But it isn't as though even a survivor comes out unscathed. Untouched. Unruined."