Sitting quietly alongside Daniel, Louis leans his head back against the sofa cushions. He keeps a measuring sort of tab on the patter of Daniel's conversation, a tethering link like a finger set to the edge of Daniel's mind.

Louis has put his own phone down on the coffee table in front of them. A necessary measure, so Louis does not break it. He has sent messages, over and over. There has been no answer.

Part of him wants to simply ask. Say, Daniel, is he dead? Ask, Are we playing fools?

It is a helplessly destructive part of Louis. It is the part of him that wants to cross the room to play his fingertips along the edge of the curtain.

"Would you tell me if he were leaving?" is what Louis eventually settles on. Whether this is better or worse is a toss up, surely.