She hesitates hard, and her poker face is abysmal around him, but the siren call of being held is far more powerful than any fear of looking sensitive. She tucks her chin down and she leans into him, her sling tucked against her ribs and her other arm snaking around him. She breathes in deep, to steady herself as relief floods her.

He asked a question. She has to string together an answer that isn’t “being a millennial” or doesn’t require her to explain computers.

“Uh, there’s printers for that, the same way books are printed just with colour... the real bullshit was getting it from the phone to the printer.”