She moans for him, almost drunkenly, but it's not without some degree of thought and understanding when he removes the clamps with such delicacy. The stories humans tell are all wrong about him, she thinks. He does care, or he wouldn't ask.

"Of course, I'll be fine," she says, struggling to straighten up, but not quite sliding to the floor. "I'll remember you with every ache."

He used to tell her that, in the beginning, before she truly understood, and now, she believed it with all her soul. To say otherwise would be foolishness, anyway. "I'll remember both of you, now."