He’s exhausted, dripping sweat. They both must be.
“Listen to me, Liza,” he says with a slow, desperate urgency. “I can’t do it. It’s Sysiphan, it’s impossible, there’s no way for me to carry enough.”
“Then,” she grates, “fucking do something about it.”
He groans. “How am I supposed to plug it with a straw, anyway? Who does that?”
“It’s all we’ve got,” she says. “We have to. We have to fill the basin.”
“But there’s a hole in the bucket,” he says, “my dear Liza.”
“Then fix it, dear Henry.” There’s no relief in her voice. “Dear Henry. Fix it.”