[The way Atlas keeps talking about his mother like he talks about everything else - too much, like it's business - is unsettling, but Jack knew he'd be dealing with that when he made his way here. He tunes him out when he knows it'll be done, wandering off to find that crate. After getting even dirtier to get clean clothes, he hauls it up and strips here, in this park, behind nothing. That's fine.
The shirt is nice, but it's not his sweater. He stands there, staring at the disgusting piece of clothing like he can rewind time to when he thought it was still comfortable. When his mother wasn't someone who sold him and had the audacity to make him feel terrible about her death.
Without looking up from it, he raises his voice:] I don't know about a funeral. I just... I don't want her to linger around like the rest of them.
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The shirt is nice, but it's not his sweater. He stands there, staring at the disgusting piece of clothing like he can rewind time to when he thought it was still comfortable. When his mother wasn't someone who sold him and had the audacity to make him feel terrible about her death.
Without looking up from it, he raises his voice:] I don't know about a funeral. I just... I don't want her to linger around like the rest of them.