There's no reason to point out the obvious. They both know this isn't easy for him, all sniffles aside, and there's a glassy wetness to her eyes when she draws back. Nobody left that night unscathed, and if she wasn't exhausted of crying, she wouldn't bother holding the tears back.

She gives him a tired look--not unfriendly, but nowhere near a smile. This is the hardest part, harder than marching him over here to look at the graves. Standing here, looking at him and searching for something else to say, something besides what she's already said, that's what takes effort. It's the difference between staying mired in this pain and taking a step or two forward.

And it's nothing she's leaving to him. He's looked a little like a kicked dog ever since he and Jesus came down the green to meet the rest of them. She can handle the conversation.

In the end, everything meaningful she can think of would keep them right here in this moment. Maybe the only right thing to say is something so casual that they can't help but move on from it. "You eaten yet?"