She swallows hard and nods, the movement jerky and wooden; she's somewhere outside herself, a marionette without strings.

"Okay."

Her fingers thread deeper into Bill's hair, and she tries to push past the hollow feeling in the center of her chest, tries to concentrate.

"There should be -- we should," and her voice catches, but she continues, "take something, if there's going to be food -- "

Because that's how people cope after wakes, she knows that well enough after losing her mom.

"Um, fruit, maybe, he'd like -- "

She presses her lips together briefly.

"He'd like that. And Kate, we have to tell Kate in the morning, and make sure someone can look after Boo, and ... "

She trails off, turning her face into Bill's chest so she won't cry.