Carefully, he wraps one arm around her shoulders (they are so boney and thin and he remembers a time when his own arms and legs felt this way, remembers how he felt inside, Death would be a mercy...) as she leans into him.

"You are welcome," he says.

With his free hand - the one that is not wrapped around her - he plucks an errant spring roll (they are cool now, but still good) from the carton and takes a bite as she digs through her pocket. The smell of the filth and grime of what she is wearing (he can hardly call it clothes) does not even bother him as he eats.

"What is it?"