( No, he certainly wouldn't be Mo Guanshan if he didn't put up some resistance, but she doesn't know that (yet). But he isn't shoving her off when he sniffles and rubs at the tear tracks on his cheeks, gives her time to follow along where she sticks to his elbow, touch settling against the back of one arm to guide him away from bumping into others.

Well, at least she tries. She isn't very successful with it. But they round a corner and he presses his back to the cool wall and slides down, and she'll fill the space beside him, lowering to her haunches with her fingertips laced together and arms stretched out over her knees. Her shoulder's pressed to his, sweater soft and warmed by the sun. )

I don't think anyone could ever get used to being forgotten. I've seen it often enough as a doctor, amnesia temporary or no. It's heart-breaking. I don't want to have forgotten those who recognize me. I can tell you all care for me, or the me that had been in these other places. I never thought I'd be on the other side.

( And then she tips her head to look over at him, one hand slipping free of the other and pausing just for a moment before reaching up to rest an arm over his shoulders, not much of an embrace because she doesn't know what's welcome but a very open invitation to make it one, if he needs it. She doesn't have a kerchief or a scarf on hand, this time. )

I'm sorry. I don't know what's happened in the time since I left Afghanistan and woke up on the moon, here, if I've been to these other places— but I would never want to forget a single soul I've met.