Indeed, she's surprised when he takes her hand. Her eyebrows slant backwards, forehead wrinkling with sympathy, and she nods, her eyes wide and glassy as she blinks a few times in rapid succession. She reciprocates his touch but closing her hand over the back of his, over his knuckles. Her hands are especially cold; her fingernails are dirty beneath with soil, though her hands themselves are very clean.

"I won't," she answers quietly, barely above a whisper. Normally, if something bad happened, Annabelle might offer to get some tea or food—though she's hardly the hospitable sort. But she doesn't want those things; she can't imagine stomaching anything, and she's sure Lauren can't either. And he's so much more sensitive than she is.

"Have you slept?"