"I don't know what that is," she stresses, glare boring into him. Jess pushes gently at his forearm, lowering his hand from her face. "You don't get it: I barely know who you are. But I know you." Frustrated, she raps his chest with her knuckles. "It's like a crappy dream or a goddamn nightmare." Carrying on in a mounting frenzy, Jess rakes her fingers through her hair from root to tip. As if the length will discern anything. She scans her hands for unfamiliar scars. "I can't have been gone six months." Or longer.