He remembered Sebastien and saw again his lythe, tanned torso moving in the sunlight. Bodies, he thought, used to contain such grace and beauty. But now, what of his own grey skin and shadowy ribs? It was hard to imagine that same sunshine of youth caressing the knotted seams of broken flesh that ran over his chest. Tanned skin is useless, he thought, for the only purpose of skin and bones is to prevent the innards from spilling everywhere. He pressed his hollow stomach, and thought of the intestines below. Poking his fingers deeper, he tried to feel the organ slipping around like a monstrous, palpating grub. His stomach gave a groan in protest and he sank at the remembrance of the need to eat. As if she had overheard, Gwen called up from the bottom of the stairs.

"Charles, are you coming down to breakfast?"

He didn't reply, but stared at himself in the mirror. How thin his face had become!

"We've got eggs..."

"..and coffee." called Kit.

A three-day beard dirtied his face and his hair was waxy and uncut. He was drifting away and he knew it.

"I-" he began, but he had not spoken in days and he had to clear his throat.

"I'm coming down!" He called back.

The eggs and coffee were annoyingly restorative. Gwen and Kit prattled on as they always did, talking about the factory and the war and people he didn't know. As she placed the plate down next to him, Gwen put a tender hand on his shoulder and gave him a concerned half-smile.

"There's plenty more." She said softly.

He knew that was a lie: There was hardly any at all and their own portions were significantly smaller than his. He couldn't bear being labelled as an invalid, but he had