He stays up very late watching her pack. She doesn’t ask for help; he doesn’t offer. She put one of her records on the turntable but never turned it over after the last song, so:

“Skip and hiss,” she says, leaning on her dad’s biggest suitcase.

“I want to play guitar for you,” he says.

“Too bad it’s my guitar,” she smiles, “and I packed it, and you can’t play anyway.”

“This one song,” he says.

“I know which one. But no.”

South doesn’t say anything.

She shakes her head. “We’ve spent ten weeks not being naked, South. Why start now?”