No, Flynn agrees privately, but something about the swallowing of those feelings isn't quite right, either. He can't put his finger on it. It's what he'd do and it's what they've talked about: the need to pull yourself together in company, to do anything to avoid sinking into useless sorrow. He understands the impulse.

Somehow, it just hurts more in someone else.

Still. He gives her the space, nods in not-quite-agreement, eying the rest of the piles.

"And," after a hesitant moment, he pulls a little handkerchief, bandanna-patterned and distinctly old-Wellstone, from his pocket and holds it out, "we can still do that inventory, after all."