"Don't die," she says evenly, after he's sloughed off a little impotent rage. (She doesn't watch, choosing instead to listen to his breath and the sharp clash of metal against metal.) "There's still a need for you. Thank you."

But, all question of death aside, she thinks she can do what he asks. Ruth runs her fingers across the glass, smooth but almost hungry as it pulls at her, and finds the edges. It's wide, but not impossible, and when she lifts it, it's not too heavy.

"Pardon. What are we doing?" she asks, after a moment or two.