"Chris, what are you doing?"
He looks up, eyes red-rimmed. "Condolence letters," he says, voice rough. That only half-explains. He has real paper, and a pen.
"By hand?"
He shrugs. "Thought it might help."
She crosses the room and rounds the desk to squeeze his shoulder. "You don't need to do this. Not yet."
"It's not going to get any easier."
She squeezes again. She wants to argue, but he might be right. "It's not working tonight," she points out.
He sighs and rubs his face. "Have a drink with me?"
She nods. The letters will still be there tomorrow.