It's queer, the thought that comes out with the way he phrases that first sentence. A wrinkle in her brow, but something about the darkness or about it simply being him no matter where the odd slights in her expectations crack at the glass, causes her to say it more than to consider turning it over and over as a thought first.

"Not the first time we've been there."

Both of the other times weren't anything like this, and they'd ended up nothing like this during or after each. One was a death that wasn't, and the other was a brain injury. But. In brass facts, and not genesis-proceeding events, they all ended with him not knowing what had gone on in her the family's lives for an extended period each way.

It's not the same thing. Barbara probably should not tell him about his future. It's not just here but there, too. It's like the loss of two different years for. Not that he won't have the one back home at some point, he doesn't have it right now.

Her head tilts as another unexpected thought follows it, making her blink in the dark—
making her wonder why they hadn't considered it the other way months and months ago.