This time, the flailing panic doesn't latch on. It's just a blip on the screen inside his head, the briefest ping of worry: did I say the wrong thing?

Then he listens through the lingering headache, swallows hard to get the lump out of his throat, and wraps his arm around Mulcahy's shoulders again, leaning close. He sniffles a little bit, just once, but doesn't say anything. The gesture says enough on its own.

I'm here. I'm still here.