"Of course I do. I have a stupid girlfriend who has a tendency to keep getting herself injured." In an odd inversion, Anathema — often so logical but also hot under the collar, over-emotional at times — isn't actually crying. She feels too overwrought and wrung-out and stunned, and like she spent all her tears on Sal's kitchen floor already, grieving this loss. Sal's hands are on her face, but then Anathema is mirroring her, gently swiping at Sal's cheek to brush some of the dirt away.

"I can get you a washcloth, too, to clean you up a bit. Jesus."

She's glad, suddenly, that none of her housemates are around to witness this reunion. Some moments deserve and need their privacy. Kicking the front door shut, she drags her towards the kitchen (which, between cooking and brewing potions and making her constant tea, really is Anathema's favourite spot in this house).