[He can't crack now. They're down to the wire. If the pattern holds, even if nobody dies they'll be forced into figuring something out very soon by whatever had Marie convinced she was the God of this place, and he's got to be absolutely together for that, but...

But letting himself feel something that isn't (desperate, fear-driven) happiness or (grief-masking, ultimately hollow) rage isn't cracking. Worry and... warmth. Fondness? Whatever this is, it's not pity, and it's not easy to name.

Who cares if she's still holding the Voodoo Sandal. Angela is getting a hug.]

Nobody else is going to die here. Not if I have anything at all to say about it. So don't... don't even think for a second that you're allowed to, all right?