"I do wonder, sometimes. Whether I'm like him. Whether I'm...capable of the same things."

Across the empty restaurant, Matty stilled. He hesitated soaking the cold compress for her cheek and turned to stare at Morgan. He then crossed the room, handed her the cloth. "You're nothin' like him."

"They don't seem to think so."

Morgan was well acquainted with the protestors now. Families and friends of her father's victims, with placards and complaint letters - often accompanied by warm, smiling portraits of the women her father had butchered. Of course, they had other reasons to hate her now. More families, more friends, more victims. Was it just two of the three apples that were rotten, or the whole tree? Were the roots gnarled and wizened, producing no life, no empathy, no conscience? Was hurting those around her all she would ever be capable of?

"Look at me." Morgan looked. The scar from his ear to his cheek tore open his face; the other sliced across his bottom lip and chin. There were others, too. Long slashes; a gouge out of his right thigh. She'd read the report. The damage her father had inflicted. "I know your father. I spent seventy three minutes with that man on a highway twenty-three years ago. It's enough to know that you are nothing like him." Her gaze fell to the floor. A firm hand lifted her chin. "Would you hurt me, Morgan?"

"Never."

"Then you're not him."

Sofia/Oz ideas that are living rent free today:

please don't be sick please don't be sick please don't be sick please don't be sick