2
Daniel Plainview cradles the deafened body of his son, choking on anguish, making a sound only dogs can hear. He looks to Anton for something, anything, some semblance of empathy, but Chigurh is unmoved. He rests against a half-burned rack of timber, flipping a coin over his smooth fingers and back again. “I have never hated anyone in the precise manner and degree to which I hate you,” Daniel croaks.
