Elvis doesn't know what she means, which one of them she's talking about, but then, he's not sure it makes any difference, either. For his part, he knows it won't, remembers too well the glow of golden flowers behind him — a miracle, though he's reluctant to admit it even to this day. He's not sure he believes in them, not like Anabelle did, at least, but it would have been a mistake if he'd died then, and one second chance is already more than most people get. It's not worth taking the chance and changing his mind again, no matter how tempting it may be some days.

That Effy gets it isn't something he likes, but he thinks maybe it helps anyway, the two of them one hell of a pair if ever there were one. Though he stays seated on the swing, he twists towards her, wanting to see her now, not caring if she can recognize the darkness in his own expression. "It won't," he agrees, his own voice a little steadier than hers (she's been that for him, so he can be that for her, too). On a whim, he reaches up to touch her cheek, backs of his fingers barely brushing against skin, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, an unnameable sort of affection. At least it's there. When some days he feels utterly drained dry, it's almost relieving to know that isn't so, like this caring so strongly about someone has brought something forgotten back in him. "It won't."