There are sums we can't know. (There are things worse than jail; violences closer and less formal, if equally impune.) We only know what we wish we didn't: each intimate term of long illness or sudden death. Every irrational loss.
But what those losses add to - the monotonously growing curve of grief - can't be extrapolated and we don't dare count. For everything listens, eager to accuse, and there's more than one series it's treason to plot.