“See, though. I want this. I want someone to keep me on the straight and narrow. I want to be free. But I can’t do it alone.”
“You’re not free.” The words escaped Wren’s lips before he had a chance to censor them. All at once he felt sorry for Rufus. He was trapped. He would never know real freedom until he embraced quitting himself, until he did it for himself. Now he was simply in a cage.
A frisson of hatred coursed through Wren, like a drug injected into his vein, for Davidson Chillingsworth. He was using Rufus’s weakness as a way to control him and use him. Wren felt vulnerable and impotent. He could sympathize with Rufus, but right now he had no idea how to help him.
“Ah. It’s tough. But are any of us really free?”
Wren wanted to say he was. He wanted to tell Rufus about a song his mom listened to, by some raspy-throated woman who had died long before Wren was even thought of. There was a line in that song about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose.