Stephen’s been squinting more and more at the text as the light drained out of the sky, the sentences fading into dimness; eventually he’s had to admit defeat, close his book, and set it aside. He exchanges it for the bottle of wine and takes a swig, no longer particularly fussed about things like proper glassware.

He looks at the waterline, following Mobius’ comment. There’s probably a joke here somewhere, one he wants to make,

but he waits, first, to see if he still feels that nervous jolt at the thought of a loved one drowning. It’s been thirty years— and it’s there, certainly, but it seems it’s muted and faded with age. Good. That’s alright, then.

“Do you know how to swim?” he asks, neutrally.