She doesn't push him away. She couldn't possibly, she thinks, ever push John away whenever he reaches for her. "I'm trying something new," she says, about the name. "I liked being Nona, and I'll like being Margot Robbie for a little while, too," as though names are a mercurial thing.

She still feels cross. But John is so very close, and he looks so very handsome and she doesn't like the look on his face, the one that means she's hurt his feelings. If anything, she thinks, her feelings should be hurt having been put to sleep for so long. "Stop making that face, I won't feel bad for you. I won't." She will, of course. She does. She reaches for him too - small hands against his face, very warm despite the cold. She frowns as big as she can, and adds: "I mean it, I won't feel even a little bit sorry for you if you keep making that face, so you better stop."

She can't really feel him at all, is the thing. The tether is so muted. She is wholly herself, but herself is only half of herself because John took the other bits of her for himself. It's a strange absence. Her thumb presses in against the hollows under his cheek bones, and suddenly very watery and sad, she leans in and presses her forehead against his. "John, I can't feel you. Isn't that strange?"