Brandon felt, interwoven with the rage that had been steadily building with each step toward his mother and Llewelyn, a wave of shame. He had been honest –‘more honest than he had been, since the Maine Incident (as they had wryly called it); more honest, even, than ever before. He had seen the look on their faces as soon as the words had left his mouth — looks that revealed understanding that it had not been adolescent angst given voice; that something was on the process of changing, on unraveling; something that perhaps had already unraveled into an angry snark of threads thrown at their feet.