Heron Lake Plateau Never mind the slacks and bashers

Quixote asked a question, and she frowned down at the crabshell. Maybe it wouldn't be enough- but then again, she could simply make trips back and forth. Getting the water into him was another issue she'd have to face, but if anyone was stubborn enough to do it, Niamh was. He said something else- something that came across as an apology, and when she looked over, he looked pretty darn defeated. Her ears flicked back in uncertainty, and she realized, then, just how negligent she'd been to be friendly in her conversation with him. He'd been mostly ignored, and she'd even spoken out of line to him, in a tone that could have been perceived as critical when she'd commented on his life changes. She was being a brat to him. 

She carefully picked up the crab shell, still full to the brim with water and gingerly brought it over to him, setting it down beside his muzzle. She sat down then, before she too slumped to the ground. "You're right, though, it's probably not enough." She said. She was doing everything wrong, it seemed. "Dude's gonna die, and it's all my fault."