"How did I not know that?" she asks, her face turned to the sun as well. Not that she's mad. Just wondering. "Cooper is supposed to share everything with me. I'm his favourite adult." He had mentioned a camping trip, actually, just not the eclipse. It's something to talk about, though, something that doesn't really matter on the surface to hide what does matter being said beneath it. It's what they're best at. Talking without talking.

Thinking about Cooper hurts. Thinking about all three of the kids hurts. Even her namesake, who's barely old enough to be interesting, she'd give just about anything to watch him sleep and drool right now. Thinking about Laura hurts. It's an important kind of hurt, though. It's the pain of missing something vital, of knowing what you're holding on for, what you're fighting to get back to. "There's one next year, cuts right across the U.S. from Washington to Florida," she says, softly. "We should go. All of us." Because of course they're getting home. It might take them a while, but they're going to get there.