"I can't make it like it never happened," he says, with considerable regret. He hates that, with a passion that verges on dangerous. "But I can stop it from getting worse. And maybe allow you some relief, so you can begin to feel better. There's definitely something we can do."

He does feel confident there--he can't replace what's gone but just as one cannot regrow an organ, one can stop the surrounding tissue from rotting. He closes his eyes again, shuffling his shoulders to refocus himself. And it's easier to find this time, a dark void at Bodhi's center. Instead of simply observing, however, he begins to tease out the frayed edges. He's not sure that's what it really is, but the visualization works well enough, and it's similar enough to the work he's been doing with flesh wounds. It's a form of cleansing, forcing the clenched, raw places to open up, and pouring his own warmth and energy into that space. It should, he hopes, allow Bodhi to begin to reclaim that part of himself he can, without constantly feeling that oozing lack at his center.