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In this short story, Thomas Wingefeld comes face to face with the horror of his existence as a result of betraying his good friend Arthur. He never meant to be a liar, a monster, a heathen, but that is what he became. And with each passing day, with each lie piled on top of the other, he can only hope to die. Not for himself, but for Arthur, his angel and savior. Arthur is the sole content of absolute truth, which starkly contrasts the half and eighth and forty-elevenths truths Wingefeld and all the other beasts tell themselves to justify their sins from so long ago. And the only way to heal, to find forgiveness, is to die. He must give of himself what he forced Arthur to surrender thirty-two years ago. That way he can truly say "I'm sorry."