"South America. The Middle East. Darfur. There's always a crisis going on somewhere." Dan shakes his head.

"That's, ah. That's El. Eliora. My kid." Finding words for that is like having a tupperware full of hornets and trying to let out just one or two, like if he isn't very, very, careful, the whole swarm might bust out. In this case, the swarm would be actually having to think of how he lost her, and he can feel his chest tighten and see how she died flash across his mind, so he takes a moment to breathe in deep, close his eyes, and remember where he is, who he's with, that it's been over a year. "She could be a little melodramatic. She's a ghost, that's why her eyes are all pale like that. It's complicated."

In the memory, Ellie rolls her eyes and, pouting, flops down on the bed. "I am way more equipped than you to go hunt monsters. You're so unfair."

"Sure am," the memory of Dan says. "And it ain't just for your protection. It's for everyone else's, too."

She scowls at him. "I hate you."

"That's a real strong word, El," the memory of Dan says, looking clearly both used to this kind of adolescent lashing-out and also genuinely hurt. "I don't think you mean it."