She watches Ellie's thumb rub over the lip of inlay and realises what she's feeling is envy. She's envious of her getting to have something that came from her mom, when she has nothing from her dad. She kept all his stuff in her room back at the stadium and when whatever's left of the WLF goes through that room, her and Manny's, they'll box everything in there up and redistribute it, clear it out. Survivors don't throw anything away. Somebody else will get all of Manny's photography equipment, lovingly collected and restored over the years; her cassette tapes, her favourite books, her dad's alma mater mug.

It takes real effort to put that thought aside, try to banish it.

"I came here out of a nightmare." Her usual: the long hospital corridor bathed in red light, alarms wailing, "My bag wasn't even full."

But she doesn't want to talk about it. Knowing about the knife is enough, really, and that Ellie wanted to tell her about it. Abby clears her throat and takes a good step back to clear her head. "Try stretching your leg."

It's a much safer topic of conversation.