She wonders idly what a phone should do, other than make calls. She accepts his device with a raised eyebrow, the sleek brick making her think of A Space Odyssey. She can see her exhausted reflection in it's screen before she figures out how to turn it on, or wake it up, or whatever. The future, apparently, doesn't care for buttons.

The email icon is pretty self- explanatory; she doesn't want to pry there, so she doesn't. There's a little blue bird, which turns into a screen full of chaos-- mostly angry, disjointed sentences about things that mean nothing to her. After some fumbling she gets out of that, and discovers exactly why she didn't see anyone with a camera: apparently cameras are obsolete.

An accidental press yields a little grid of what must be his previous photos: a number of blurry flies floors and fingers, a cut off view of his face, some pictures of trees and sunsets outside. She thinks about scrolling down-- but she's not sure she wants to know.

He comes back to the table; she looks up.

"I can't ask how," she hedges. It feels wrong, to get too deep into her own future. "But... you mean remission?"

Seventeen years later, is she actually okay? It seems impossible. She can't dare hope.