She accepts the napkins with a grunt that might be "thanks," but uses the back of her sleeve anyway. A tiny part of her registers the irony of Cassandra offering false hope, but these are strange times.

"Look," she says, as neutrally as she can, "it's not- it doesn't matter until we're back there and can see for ourselves, yeah? But there's more you should know. More that you might need here."

Please, Cassandra. Please let her change the subject for once.