Gideon listens to all that with her jaw clenched tight and, when Harrow stops talking, something sullen and shitty settles in her chest. It's reminiscent of the way that she'd felt after Jeannemary died - like she's crammed neck to navel with dusty garbage. She should have been there. Harrow shouldn't have had to do any of that on her own.

Slowly, she gets up onto her knees and shuffles across the small space between them so that she can sit down right next to the tub, leaning her chin on the rolled enamel edge. She takes care not to let her eyes dip, fixing them on Harrow's face. "There won't be a next time," she says, softly. "And, if there is, well. You won't be on your own, will you?"