This isn’t a pitfall Jorah has previously considered -- living through having your own heart carved out of your chest. Bits and pieces. His throat closes around a swallow that feels thick; the furrow of his brow takes on a more critical knit -- a sort of sympathy clench. It’s hard to read, at odds with his bravado.

It’s equally hard to tell whether or not Will is telling the truth.

“Some of us aren’t packing around with boxes of human remains.”

He opens his hand and the heart falls, plop, back into the cooler. Muscle and jelly.