[The childish frustration—like a kid denied the toy he'd pointed at in a store—would be almost borderline amusing if not for the dark request. Instead, it's chilling: a demand and disappointment for death.

She holds on as he struggles, the firm pressure never abating.]

I'm not leaving you—and if you attack me, we're just going to end up right back here.

I call ceasefire. We call this, until we're out of here. Then you can aim as many kicks at me as you want. Okay?

[It's a desperate attempt—better than restraining him, but doubtful he'd accept.]