Nancy helps to put the boy in the coat, his arms stiff and unwieldy- it dwarfs him, makes him look like he's wearing his father's coat. It almost makes her smile. With her hands, Nancy rubs down his arms, hoping the warmth she'd gotten from her court could help bring him back.

"And you know our Dodge- he'll want that coat back," she says, biting back tears. It's not working. None of it's working. Oliver is stiff and cold, pale.

Nancy sits back on her heels.

He's dead.

Oliver Twist is dead, and it's her fault.