Cash bit his lip. "Oh," he said, although that had been more or less what he'd expected when he asked the question. Ford wasn't sleeping, and was summoning him back to Ireland in weird frantic letters, and he kept asking Cash how he was. There was a part of Cash that wondered — should he be more worried than he was? But being worried about himself felt immaterial, right now — he was more worried about Ford, who was stressed out and in front of him and admitting that he wasn't doing well.

"Can I — help?" Cash asked, knowing that it was a weird question to ask when he was talking to someone who had essentially saved his life a month and a half ago. But he wanted to help; maybe he could help, maybe that was why he was here in the first place. Something was going on, obviously.

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