She waves a dismissive hand because it's way too annoying to have to explain all of this to someone who still thinks arranged marriages are the way to go. "Don't worry about it," she insists, still helping to get some water in him, cautious not to choke him with it or spill it all over his face.

"It's metaphorical steel. You know, the sort where you've been through enough bad luck and situations to have developed a good backbone," she rambles. "I mean, I've died at least once, once you go through that, you get stronger." When he actually gives a real promise about helping to take care of her in return, she tries not to let any emotion show, barricading it back behind protective walls. "Well, good," she adds, half-heartedly. "Because I can't guarantee you're not going to get me sick, me doing this."