"That." One small word, so soft, loaded down with everything that's between them, including some fucked up world Magnus saw where they had a kid. Together. Her and Will. It has to hold the weight of everything, because she doesn't know how else to say that what's wrong is that he has to ask.

She sits quiet for a long time. Longer than this Will's probably ever seen before she says, "I stayed. I never stayed anywhere. But I stayed." He should know. Will should understand. He does know. What a home means to kids like him, runaways like her. "Now it's gone."

It's gone. But there's nowhere to run except crazy.