She sleeps, but not with ease. After he leaves, she rolls over and balls herself up in the duvet, just like she used to do when she was twelve. Evan used to call her caterpillar, she'd cocoon herself up so tightly.

She hears him moving around and waits for him to return. When he doesn't, the distance takes on a weight, making it hard for her to draw air into her lungs. She closes her eyes and tries to still the chaos in her head. He's just there, in front of the telly, not lost, not somewhere she can't lay eyes on him.

He looks like hell. Like a man who's visited his own shallow, unmarked grave and is now coming to grips with it. His eyes aren't focused on anything in the room.

After a long while of just watching him, the pragmatist in her can't take it anymore. She hauls herself up, and disappears into the bath. A cool cloth on her face helps most of the puffiness around her eyes, though the redness isn't going anywhere it seems. She brushes out her hair, leaving it down and simply tucking the length behind her ears. Close enough for government work.

When she emerges, she eyes the room for the house phone, or some other way to contact the front desk. What she finds is the pneumatic tube system, and the tiny handbook with it. She scribbles a note, and sends it down, and then joins him, taking up a place on the other end of the sofa.

'Who's winning?'