He finishes the first braid and lays it down gently against her shoulder, breathing out as he begins the second. Working slow, and steady. It helps, having something to do with his hands. Having something to focus on outside of his own racing, brittle thoughts.

"I want to believe that," Carver replies, quiet and sad. "I'm trying to."

It catches on him, though. All the things they both learned to take that become the things they could survive when the world ended. And that was a skill. That made them valuable, didn't it?