Much as she tries, she's no Elena Fisher. There's no inherent maternal instinct that tells her to mind the cracks or notify him of any slick looking patches. Charlie's a grown man that's navigated worse than a city street; she trusts him to pay attention to how he puts one foot-- crutch-- down after the other.

So at the intersection when they've got the all clear to slip across, Chloe moves ahead a good three paces before she realizes he's stuck frittering at the edge.

And instead of offering her arm, she doubles back only one step (hand half-raised so as to be discreet and not overwhelmingly hennish), waiting for him to cue her in.

"Got it?"