[This is what she'd wanted. Never mind everything else, the teasing and the kiss and the information, no, it can all wait. This right here is what she'd been after, right from the moment she saw her Robert had finally come back to her. She sits in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. She's still got his jacket on around her, and the entire effect is that of being cocooned: safely surrounded by him, braced in on all sides and kept safe.

It isn't easy to let go. Not even here, not even with him. She can't simply burst into tears, though it won't be long until she does. Rosalind stays pressed up tight against him, her breath leaving her in little pants, clinging to him as if that might prevent him from leaving her. And she has to cling, she has to, because--]

You might yet leave.

[She whispers it.]

This happened last year. I read about it, I checked-- a flood of people arrived, and only a few ever stayed. They were barely here a week, and you might--

[Her mouth trembles, and now her voice rises, the words slipping past her lips in a desperate stream.]

You might leave me, Robert. I'm going to wake up one morning and you won't be there, you'll just be gone! I've been without you for five months, I nearly died and you weren't there, and I can't, not again, I can't do it, Robert--