He picks up the marble, and it's almost as though suddenly, her chest has been pulled tight. She fails to breathe at first, before her body slowly comes to relax, each passing second making it all the more unlikely that the virus has made the trip intact. Neither of them know each other. She doesn't even know his name. Yet in front of him right now, she does something that she wouldn't trust everyone to see, even those she's known for years.

Lowering herself to the sand, Faye presses her forehead to her knees, taking a second to compose herself.

She can handle this, she's sure. How many times has she brushed by death? Her friends? There's no stopping it, and there's no point in expecting something nicer here and now. Maybe this island is just a chance at a reprieve, curtains tugged shut to avoid seeing the worst, tunnel vision aimed at hope.

"If they were Vincent's," she says, even though he has no way of understanding, no context— and even she never dug for more after he passed away, his story fading with his last breath. "You'd be bleeding out by now."