Hate hasn't crossed her mind. He's something else, the man who might have scarred her, her captor, the second man in all the world to find her special. And whatever that emotion is called, it's circus peanuts compared to what she feels for a dead boy wreathed in iridescent light.

So she wrenches herself free and begins to dance, though her posture makes it clear that each step is meant for another participant. Her arm curves around an absent companion, moves over their invisible chest. She caresses a man who isn't there, but she knows it's him, the man watching her. At the end, she's breathless with this overwhelming sense of purpose. She speaks into the camera: "We have to practice."