"Little stick, short stick, it's the same thing. The littlest stick is the shortest one." She's not arguing for anything other than the distraction it might provide for Peter. It's a silly and sentimental part of her that imagines him sitting against the wall like she is, his back pressed to the same spot hers is, as though even through the cell, they can still find each other. That silly and sentimental part of her is right. If the wall disappeared right now, they'd fall against one another, back to back. She still thinks it's silly.

She drums her fingernails against the ground, frowning at her own hand. She is so fucking sick of seeing green against white. "We'll be all right. We always are. It's our thing. Right?"