He's struggling now, but not with his anger. His fingers clench tight, and then spread over his book, as if grounding himself on it.

Conversations like this, few as they've been, tend to make him feel worse. Because if he can't even convey the problem, how can he ever hope to fix it?

'I'm sorry,' he says, eventually.

It feels like the Hulk has a fist in his chest, squeezing his lungs.

'It's just that none of this is ever going to go away. I can't make it better.'