"No, I bought you the book because I knew you wanted it," she reasoned. "We should do this more often. Take time for us."

She had yet to let the time off sink in for herself, really: Andy was always moving, always working on something, even if it was only walking around, checking the perimeter of the land that surrounded the house. The other three, Booker especially, had needed the respite. It was just that while Andy could relax, could unwind for a week or three, or a month, she didn't know what else to be without the fight. It was more than what she did, it was who she'd become.

Centuries, millennia, of doing this all the time had simply shaped her that way. So she smiled at Booker, relieved and glad that he was feeling more himself again and less utterly spent. "So you don't turn out like me."