The hand on his back is heavy and kind, reassuring in a way that sets Raju's insides twisting up again. He shivers, and doesn't know if it's from the cold. Francis is a kind man, still, even after the things Raju said. Because he thinks Raju is the kind of man who deserves it. Not looking at Francis could only delay the moment so far, and the moment is here, and Francis deserves to know. Raju needs to tell him.

"I, I'm—" Raju's voice is tense and tight when need pushes it out of his throat, then falters after trying the first word. He doesn't know where to start. He's never had to explain this before.

Has he? He'd tried. Hadn't he tried? But he'd explained it the wrong way, the first time, when Francis had just taken him in. Start at that lack, and fill it in. "I told you. What I'd done. One of the things I'd done. To that man. I beat him. But I—"

He doesn't know how to say this. He can feel his breath unsteady and sharp with the cold in his throat, can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He doesn't want to know how to say it. So he pushes it out anyway. Francis' hand is impossible to ignore, as steady and still as his back and shoulders aren't, heavy and reassuring and terrible. The awful, persistent feeling of it pushes the confession out of him in a way a pen and empty sheet of paper hadn't, years ago, the day he'd stopped writing home. "I forgot. I think I forgot, here. It's easy to forget when I'm not there, so I didn't tell you. When I go back I'll do it again. I'll do worse. I'd do worse here, too. To anyone that I have to. It doesn't ever matter who. I'm not like you."

The snow under his hands is melting. He watches it dripping between his fingers, and can't think of any reason to reach down and scoop up more.