[They kind of are both panicking already. It's sad to look at, and Beckett dearly wishes he could defuse it with some healthy snark. Alas nothing about them is healthy. They clutch at each other like exactly the kind of terrified children the town seems to actively want to reduce them to. He hates it. He hates how easy it is. The tampering with memories. With reality. The doubt.]

How do you know? I'm not sure, I think I'm sure and then I don't - it seems just as real. I remember everything. It could have happened. That is exactly how it could've happened.