They thought she should have it.

They asked if she wanted to be alone.

She did not.

She kept Leo beside her, his small warmth against her ribs, and she unfolded the single printed page with hands she could not, this once, keep from shaking.

The transmission was short.

A man running out of sky does not have many words, and Gabriel had not spent his on fear, or on himself, or on the machine that was failing around him.

He had spent them on her.