There's a deep, bewildering stab of fear: this is how she loses him. It's not the inhumanity that bothers her but the wilderness, the sense that if she'd slept another hour maybe he wouldn't stand to meet her, maybe he'd sink into the fertile earth and stay there. It's not a rational fear, she tells herself; but she doesn't know.

Her gaze stays locked on his until he's in front of her, when she looks down to rustle the coffee cups out of the bag, handing one over.

"There's a bench up this way." She'd rather keep his feet on the pavement if she can. She gives him a considering look, not quite meeting his eyes; she hasn't bottled up her worry, knows it will break like a wave if he looks too hard at her.

"How's your manna?"