Perhaps he ought to be the one taking care of the fire, helping Derrica out of her frosted clothes and easing her down to rest—someone else might see it through. She's not a child. He doesn't feel like moving, even to get into bed properly. This here will do. Trousers and all.

She's speaking, she's sitting like he's the one who nearly drowned, presenting him with the obligation of an emotional exchange. He couldn't be more fatigued. Probably she couldn't be, either, and yet she persists...

"I know." From the bunched-up blanket snakes his hand, palm up. "So am I."

(He isn't. But it's what you say.)