[He laughs too; it doesn't sound any happier than hers, just a quiet rough little rumble in his throat. Of course he notices his shirt getting damp, but that's fine. What else is she supposed to do? He wants her to feel better. He wishes he could just do something, exactly the right thing, perfect and magical, for her pain to go away and her smile to come back . . . but death doesn't work like that. Maybe if this were a breakup. Failing a test. Slamming her hand in the door, sure. Then he could fix it with a joke . . .

Death doesn't work like that. So he just holds on and nods, fingers stroking her hair.]

I told you I'm fine, 'kay? I didn't even get sick after . . . I'm a hundred percent okay.

[Of course he hadn't been. But it's hard to even remember, right now, faced with this, what had been wrong. How he'd felt, or even what he'd been doing earlier.]

So I got you. I—I'd give you anything you needed if I could . . . 'm sorry.