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Sitting upright in a hard chair with one boot hooked behind the other, halfway through explaining a water-haulage calculation.

For a moment, I didn’t move at all.

I’d watched horses fall asleep standing. Tuck could probably do it if we gave him a fence to lean against. But there was something about the unfinished sentence that took the humor clean out of this.

She hadn’t decided to stop.

Her body had stopped without her.

I got up carefully. The chair scraped, soft but loud enough that I froze.

She didn’t wake.

At her side, I could see the small crease between her brows. Even asleep, she looked faintly displeased with the figures.

I crouched beside the chair.

Her fingers held the pen loosely. I put mine around the barrel and eased it back.

There was one slight resistance, the knuckle of her index finger catching the clip.

Then it came free.

Her hand stayed curled above the paper for a second before settling on it.

I capped the pen.

Such a small sound.

It felt final in the quiet room.

I laid it beside the sheets and moved the water glass farther from her elbow. Her phone sat facedown on the opposite side of the table. I left it there.

I wasn’t going to take anything else from her tonight.

I stood beside the chair, trying to work out how to get her to go to bed without startling her.

Wake her gently. Step back. Let her stand.

Straightforward.

Everything was straightforward until it was her.

No, I decided. I’d go and get her a blanket. Let her sleep here. I didn’t want to risk waking and upsetting her. She had been looking more and more tired each and every day.

I was at the doorway when I heard her voice.

“Cash.”

Her head had lifted, but her eyes weren’t quite open. One hand rested on the edge of the table. She looked toward me with none of the sharpness she wore in daylight.

“Help me to bed, Cash.”

Small.

Not childish. Not helpless. Just stripped of the careful tone that usually stood between her and whatever she needed.

No apology after it.