[ It's almost impressive how she manages to combine a) flatly denying his abilities with b) allowing that they exist, but are garbage. Matt can't help a flutter of amusement. While a strange reaction, it makes a welcome contrast to how he's felt thus far when reflecting on his missing magic: bruised, raw, aching. Like a shadow of himself. ]

I truly wish I could prove you wrong, [ he says dryly. ] It doesn't matter practically speaking, but I was thinking more of a modified light construct. Under here. [ He lifts one end of the bedroll, and sketches a curved shape with his other hand: the gesture is about the size and shape of a hot water bottle. ] Support your neck, follow the shape of your head. I think I could get it to have a decent amount of give.

But, you know, lacking that, I saw some branches that might be passably soft. Maybe woven grass. Any interest?

[ It's not so totally different from the magical projects he'd embarked on at home. Those too had involved a lot of improvisation--as a starving grad student, he didn't have the money to do otherwise. And Matt finds that the prospect of any task, no matter how minor and quixotic--any problem to solve--distracts him from the thorny existential questions lurking at the base of his brain. As long as he's stuck in place, he may as well provide himself the illusion of forward motion. ]