"How's it different?" she hisses. "Why shouldn't I have asked him? Wasn't in danger. Wasn't fighting for my life. He's a friend. How's it better when I don't ask?"

Even with her uncharacteristic barrage of questions, she can't have this conversation, can't sit still. He's made just enough room now, leaning back, that she don't feel boxed in, and she gets up, stepping away from him, making for the kitchen instead. She'll clean her own damn face and it'll be back to normal soon enough.