Once she's able to work into a rhythm, Effy finds that it isn't so hard to give Elvis a push, knowing exactly where on his back to press, palms pressing against his shoulder blades. As he falls back, she watches him pass through the smoke in the air, cutting through, forcing it to fade away. And it's beautiful. His laughter lingers longer than the smoke does, and that's beautiful too, something that she's learned not to expect from Elvis, though she wonders if she can now. It's hard to laugh in the wake of someone's disappearance, the hollow in one's heart rending one to the point of collapse; she's felt it before, if not over a lover, then certainly over her father.

That he can laugh and smile on occasion, no matter how rare, feels like a victory.

"I used to swing with Tone," she reminisces, breathless as she delivers another push. "Go high, until I was soaring, laughing, felt like I'd never come down."