She's frustrated. She wants to help, but she can't; she's at the beginning of a journey learning that there's nothing one can do with grief but survive it. There is no handling it. There is only enduring it. And fussing Lauren, trying to do what she can for him because he suffers more than her, is a distraction for her own grief anyway. Not knowing how what to do, so clever, quick thinking and book learned, is unfamiliar and irritating.

"Right. Of course."

But she has to stop pushing him—to bathe, to sleep.

She nods, closing her eyes, eyelashes wet, cool from the morning air. She continues to pet his back, listening to and relishing in his heartbeat. She can feel it.

"Sorry."