The idea of movement—of having to coordinate her steps, move into a different room where the light is different and the movement of the air is different and the sounds are different and there are different objects and no sea to look into—is overwhelming. And there is a still place in her now that she has emptied that is big enough, barely, to hold on to.

"No," she repeats, although it is softer. Clearer. More level. Not made of brittle grating shards. She raises her face to look at him, apology mixed in with the pain. "I cannot manage moving," she sniffs and shakes her head, more slowly this time, a bit ginger as the headache from her weeping begins to settle in, "but I will sit with you if you bring it."