"Yeah," It's too quiet, if only a little, carrying a subtle sort of guilt for snapping at him, "Yeah, I know. I get it, believe me. Mine, uh..."

It's something that happened, she tells herself, and talking about it won't change it. Talking about him won't change it. Won't make it any more or less real. Won't make it any farther away from the here-and-now. She's not the kind of person who deals well with grief, or guilt, or losses of any kind. When you have so few lines tying you to the world, each one becomes precious.

"His name was Thane. He died months ago, before I woke up here. So... No, he won't be coming back."

And this is why we drink.