They wonder how weird this is. Compared to dust. Both are messy in a different way.

Frisk's not so far gone that they're going to ask.

"It's not," they repeat, voice a little softer. It's all they can say, and it's the truth. He can't be everywhere. He shouldn't put himself in danger like that even if he could, either.

They sink the blade--scoop--into the soil, and they get six more bits of earth hollowed out before they think to say "You don't need t' help."