Her relief doesn't quite wash over him. He lets it lap at his feet, cautiously heartened that her first response to the idea of him sick was concern and not malice. If he doesn't let that matter to him too much, then it doesn't matter that the root of it is about looking after herself, not him.

The arms across his chest fall slack. For skin and bones, she looks pretty, braiding her hair for bed. As ghostly as she's ever appeared, yet never more like a person. Hap wets his lips and takes a step toward the chair. The nylon pack rests on the seat. He grabs it and brings it over.

"I'd like you to apply these," speaking of the peel-and-stick electrodes inside, "before you go to sleep." She seems once again amenable to his direction. Joan has applied them to herself plenty of times now. He always checks that they're correct and lately they always are.