"What's there to say?" But he's gruff with it, slow to negotiate his words. They seem, in part or whole, to burden him. At least he's for sitting, and soon enough for water. It shames him, a man grown, and she a woman striving to please and ease him. He should be better than a child.

But he isn't. Before this, none of them are. "We don't have to speak of anything. But it won't make the matter undone, won't it? Throwing out glass doesn't piece back a mirror. These children won't be for their homes again."