Desmond weighed what to do, what to say. He chose, in the end, to draw closer to her, resting his arms on the top of the rail dividing the pens from one another. What would he have done even before he climbed into bed with Maria? Listen. They've always been able to have some kind of dialogue, even when his French was still shitty and he'd had yet to take up the sergeant's tunic.

"Well I'm here, you're here," he said, as nonchalant as he could. "Do you want to talk about it?"