Arthur wants to ask how, how he's supposed to get through this, how he's supposed to keep walking when every time something rips away someone he loves, it seems to take his heart and a couple of limbs with it.

He can't say it. Not for emotional reasons, but because something really is catching in his windpipe, like the grit that would collect whenever the bucket remained unfilled for several days.

"I just need," he begins, and then coughs about fifteen times more, and then wheezes "drink," starting to move a little frantically in what he thinks might be the direction of the bathroom. (It's not.)