"You don't mean that," she said softly. "When I get sad, and when I worry, you tell me you're gonna be just fine and work's not dangerous at all. And when you sit up nights and smoke, you tell me that you could go home any time, and then it's just a matter of when. I get that. I don't have the right to complain, I knew that all along. It's just."

She shrugged, awkwardly. "Some day you're gonna show up and tell me to move on with my life, and you love me, and you're sorry, and then that'll be it. And he was saying, if you do me a few favors, that ... doesn't have to happen. And you'd rather go home anyway. Things to do, promises to keep. Even if that means ... what it means. And I'm supposed to just ... accept that."