She felt so badly for him, watching him. One didn't have to be in his head to see his struggle to understand, to grasp what his body was doing. And one didn't need to know him as well as she did. Because she did, however, she felt his agony almost as if it were her own.
Not that she knew what being drunk felt like, really. She'd have to take his word on that one.
Her thumb ran over his knuckles, not even knowing if he was going to feel it or not. In some ways, she hoped he couldn't. Not if he was in so much pain. "You were getting arrows. We just started looking everywhere on the way to Clint's. It seemed to make the most sense." She didn't tell him about the carnage she'd seen on the way there. About the bodies all over the streets of Lawrence, favorite places burned or looted. He'd had enough of that. She was just grateful one place had been left standing. The one he'd taken refuge in.