On the other side of the wall, Burr weeps too. Silent tears, unmoving, staring at the grain of the wood in the wall. And unlike Hamilton--he doesn't know why he weeps. He is numb. Distant. And though he promised Ned, he does not go to Hamilton. He needs to be alone. For how long, he doesn't know.

He thinks he is fevered, when he finally sleeps. His body aching and his stomach roiling. And somewhere there in the half space of dream and wakefulness he is sure, if there is a way to be sure, that beyond all hope he is pregnant. Something latching on inextricably, draining life and leaving behind petrification.