"That," she says, pointing an accusing finger at him, "is the single biggest non-answer anyone could possibly give someone. 'You're you'. And in other news, water is wet and the moon is cold!"

Of course, as much as she makes fun of it, she knows it's not true. Sometimes you're not you. Sometimes you're a villain wearing a mother's skin or an alien in human flesh. Sometimes you're a motley assortment of bruises passing yourself off as who you were. It's all in how you look at it.

So as much as she protests, it is nice to hear and be reminded.

"Not to mention it's coming from someone who I don't think knows who he is." She holds her hands out, palms forward, to warm themselves in front of the fire. Her hair is drying, naturally curlier with the humidity and tangled. "Or what he would like do when he's done doing-" she waves too- "all this."