One of the shadow-crows pecks him in the horn with a loud tok; the rain falls harder, in steady plops, running over his skin, warmed by it, stinging like sweat, or tears, implacable and constant, soaking him to the skin despite the heat, soaking him in spite of the soft steaming that ensues, more cold water endlessly raining down.

He's not here, Kahl points out. You don't have to deny your pain just to deprive him anymore. He's already lost it.