She counts to five, silent and slow, before hopping on one foot to snag a paper towel from the roll on the counter.

(She shuts the fridge along the way.)

Brightly, "No, I'm good."

Her mouth twists a little as she cleans the condiment from her toes; a minute later, the floor's mustard-free.

"I just want you to finish up so you can get some sleep."