The look she receives is patient, eyebrows raising. The patter of their conversation is still the same, in spite of the dread curling in Ellis' chest. He folds his hands together between his knees (no mittens, in spite of the cold) and watches her face.

And says nothing.

It's the survey, and it isn't the survey. It's the tightness of her voice in a cabin in a dream and the snap between them in a chilly campsite. They all come from the same place, from a deficit in him, but he waits to hear it confirmed aloud by her.