He’s quiet again, the rasp of his breath mingling with the rustle of his bedding when he stretches against it.

It’s a question that doesn’t bear answering, really, an impulse towards dry honesty -- the list of things that don’t concern him would be substantially shorter -- lifted up and let off in a huff of salt, the ghost of a scoff.

“I’m just tired,” he tells her. Tired and unhappy.

“I'll be alright.”