And finally telling her story to Wilf Netherton, who’d looked like a low-key infomercial for an unnamed product. Burton hadn’t been around, when that was finished, so she’d walked up the hill alone, wondering why, if the thing she’d been in was a game of some kind, somebody would want to kill Burton, thinking he’d been there instead of her. For having seen a kill in a game? When she’d asked Netherton about that, he’d said he didn’t know, like he didn’t know why there was no capture, wasn’t anxious to know, and that she shouldn’t be either. Which had felt to her like when he was realest.