Some things can't be fixed at all, a fact Cameron has learned with startling clarity in recent weeks, as if he had never before known this. In a way, he never had. There's a difference between knowing this is so, that some things are beyond repair — say a dropped plate, Limoges porcelain scattered in surprisingly dangerous pieces, cobalt blue and white across a polished hardwood floor — and knowing that there are things in his own life he left too late, mistakes that he can't put right. He can try, but even he, for all his stubbornness and his code of honor, knows that, now they've lost the website, there's no regaining that ground, that he waited too long, that the best they can hope for now is vindication and, perhaps, for the damn thing to be shut down or — he doesn't know, actually, what the best is, but it isn't what it should have been, and that's on him for waiting.

He looks over at Jenny, brow furrowing slightly. It's hard to picture her as the kind of girl with much in her past which needs must be rectified. "Well, with a little cleverness and determination," he says, "I'm sure you'll find a way. It can't be that bad, can it?"