Sisse was grateful for something to do with her hands so she reached out and took up the sketchbook, looking at the house he had been sketching, one finger idly tracing the lines of the building, the windows, walls. It was as neat and orderly as his sketches of brooms. Beside her she heard him settle on the swing. She turned the page, looking at another house, her eyes taking in the minute details, the colors that had been painted on the page.

His words drew her attention and she turned her gaze on him. "I don't know if any of us are." She found herself admitting. And there is was, that stirring of ...something, the need to grab his hand, to brush the worry from his face. This she found herself closing the sketchbook, her other hand reaching out to clasp his hand with hers as her gaze met his, willing him to understand her concern, the earnestness with which she wanted him to feel hopeful and happy again, "You are alright, are you not?" Silently she willed him to be, willed him to be better, to feel hope, to be alright, to stop the worry she had seen eating at him, the worry and doubt and sorrow. Let him be alright, she prayed, let him find some solace even with this storm.