She takes her hand. She's not one for public displays of affection, really. She doesn't give a damn what other people think and would make out with Lincoln, under normal circumstances, in front of anyone and everyone if she wanted. But tenderness is another story. It happens, but less frequently. So now when she squeezes Lincoln's hand in hers, it means something.

"It's not that," she says, shaking her head. "It was forgetting. I didn't remember--" Her lips purse and, hinting where she can't say the words, she reaches a hand to rub lightly at the chemical burns on her body. "It was all gone, in my head."