He makes a noise in the negative, a little mm-mm. Glances at Ruth and looks away, as though caught staring. “I mean. She's not here.” He's grateful for that. The limits of his selfishness: he's never once wished her to his side, to another place arranged according to unfathomable whims.

“She's in a different universe. She had her pick,” he says, and for all the wistfulness there's a trace of pride in his voice. It's only fitting, only fair. He likes picturing her, wherever she is—different hair, different clothes, maybe a new name, one she's chosen for herself—wondering at a piece of fruit or a car or the ocean.

The sheer variety, the never-fading novelty of choice.

“I didn't ask where, I—” Had faith. They'd been to those places where universes touched, glimpsed the light woven through it all. Sometimes he still believes it, that they'll cross paths again. Meet at some crook in the universe. But that's not faith, is it? Sometimes isn't sustaining. “It actually, um”—his choppy laugh echoes through the cave—“happened really fast.”

He lets his laughter die out, draws his legs to his chest. He looks at her—forgetting to feel stupid for wanting to meet eyes wrapped in a blindfold. Softly, weighing the question before he asks: “What happened to David? Will you tell me?”