She waits for him to go on, leaving him space to talk about whatever he's thinking about behind his eye, but she's not terribly surprised that he seems to have stalled out for the moment. She watches the candle flame for a few silent moments, considering for herself what - if anything - she wants to offer in turn. More anecdotes of long dead family members? A rainy day memory of her mother?

She breathes out. "For years after the virus, I didn't even know what day it was, let alone have time to do anything like this. I didn't want to do anything like this - we were losing people in droves, faster than I could meet them or learn their names. When shit really hit the fan, I went from cities to camps to groups to just me and one other person for a while, and still people were dying all around me. I hardly wanted to think about it."

A tactic she still uses, though not quite as mercilessly as she did back then just to stay alive.

"But if I'm honest, I could have the last couple years, if I'd wanted to. I didn't. I don't like to think about anyone whose picture I might add to my ofrenda these days. I don't like knowing that I don't have anyone to build it with me. I guess this is me sucking it up." That, and this:

"I chose whiskey as an offering for... a friend. That saved me, and was killed. And I hope that if he can make it through, if he can find me here, that he enjoys it."