He nudges his hips in to better follow the dagger’s trajectory without his eyes, the blanket he’d just flicked out so tidily bunched up again while she touches at buttons, as if a better use for it has occurred to him. He has to borrow his hand back to see to it, glimpses of his attention osprey-keen in the hat shade. Whatever good humor is left in him is awfully bleak.

“What do you think should happen to me after this war is ended?””

No outside input is needed for when he should ask his awkward question.