"I said I didn't want to talk about it. Or something close," he reminds her, unnecessarily, but it's close to the point and Ellis is trying to scrape together thoughts that scatter away from him. They'd been sitting out in the sun. She'd had Richard's snake among the flowerbeds. The chickens hadn't been here yet. Ellis turns his head briefly towards the place, but it's irrelevant. The point is not that day, not exactly. It was something that had been enough at the time.

"It's not something I'm hiding from you, or from him. I don't talk about any of it because it's painful, and I can't—"

They're edging towards the most he's spoken at length outside of a letter. Which registers, as Ellis breaks off, thumb pressing down over one knuckle.

"I can't," he repeats, a complete statement rather than an involuntary stop.