"Yeah," she says, brushing her fingers over her empty wrist again. "Like the tattoo."

It's nice to let herself talk about her, but it's also exhausting, and she pulls the blankets more securely around herself, suddenly cold and shivering. Her throat is dry, the spaces behind her eyes burn, and her stomach feels like an empty pit, which she tends to interpret in only one way.

"I'm starving," she croaks. "Too nauseous to do any tattooing right now, though."