"Thank you," she says, and she means it. The words are genuine, right out of her mouth. She was expecting more bluster, but there's comfort in contingencies. She doesn't yet truly think she's going to die. She just wants a plan if things go to shit. There's nothing but good in plans. It means there's a future.

Joan expects it to be like the story of the toad that slowly didn't notice until the water was boiling. It's not like that. Suddenly everything is pain, but it's not her skin. Her soul, that thing she could never feel until it got fucking damaged, it's on fucking fire. She writhes despite herself, trying to thrash out of the water and failing.

The creature within her bypasses her constraints, slips through while she's distracted and exhausted. Spite, now, drives it. She holds Joan's head underwater, trying to let her drown. If I can't have it, no one can.