"And the others?" She's not far from him, and she's not pulling back. The more he talks, the more he moves, the more he still looks very much like himself. Himself, hurt. Himself, but eyes dark and voice sometimes strangely conflicted, almost begging bitter. Nothing the way Barry should sound.

She can't imagine Barry alone. So many people had come last week. He was always surrounded with friends, and family, and Barry without those. Barry, with Iris dead. Barry, possibly without anyone?