The house is just off the dirt road running parallel to the forest. The scent of human is fresh and warm, and while Forty feels the momentary fear of discovery she's quickly overcome by relief. Thirty-Seven is limp on her back, his breathing labored and loud. Forty avoids looking at him, doesn't want to see how the flesh around his eyes is red and swollen. She holds him tighter to her and vaults over the small barbed wire fence blocking the house from the forest, immediately greeted by three small creatures bounding at her feet.

"Dogs," she says, recognizing the smell. The little things jump at her legs, each one no taller than her knee. They're all different colors and hair lengths but share the same annoying bark. Forty drags her feet as she walks to avoid stepping on them.

The house is an off-white, the paint peeling and flaking off into the sparse grass near the foundation. There's a screened in porch bordered by a concrete walkway, the door enclosing it swinging lazily in the still wind. Forty props it open with her heel, adjusting Thirty-Seven on her back to pound at the door leading into the main structure. "Help!" she yells, hoping her urgency comes across to the human inside. She doesn't know how long Thirty-Seven has until he truly passes out, and she has no idea if she's even taking the proper steps. All she knows is that she will do anything to save him. Not only did Dr. Zapata entrust her with that job, but over these weeks she's grown to like Thirty-Seven, oddities and all. To lose him when she's just gained his trust is the ultimate punishment.

"Now what do y'need?" a gravelly voice says as the door swings open quickly. Forty races inside, not even greeting the man as she nearly throws him against the wall in order to spread Thirty-Seven out on the couch. "Hey! Girly! What the hell are you doin' in my house?"

A hand grips her shoulder, the fingers gnarled and full of tremors. Forty whirls on the man to find an old, stumpy pink face, weathered and wrinkle-filled. The owner of the house doesn't look angry at her intrusion, more deeply confused and unsettled than anything. Forty schools her expression, trying to hide the shock of seeing a human again after so long. Not a half-wild human like Missy, but a real, infection-wary human. 

"Epipen," she blurts out, staring through the man's watery blue eyes. He glances over at Thirty-Seven who is now coughing, panic overtaking what little Forty can see of his face.

"Oh!" the little old man yells. "What's gotcha?" he mumbles, walking unsteadily towards what looks to be a kitchen. He opens a wooden drawer, fishing around in the miscellaneous tools and old trash until he produces the strange tube Forty recognizes instantly. She practically pounces on him to grab the Epipen. "Y'need to elevate his legs," the man mumbles, though Forty ignores him in favor of ripping a long slit in the waistband of Thirty-Seven's pants. His leg is brown with dirt and sheened with sweat, and Forty haphazardly clears a blank space before stabbing the Epipen into his thigh and pressing down. Thirty-Seven takes a deep breath, relief overtaking his features. Forty can hear his heart jackhammering in his chest, but thankfully the awful wheeze fades and he's able to raise his hand to knock Forty away from his leg. She sighs in relief, walking over to the old man who watches them curiously, and hands him the used tube.

"Ah, just throw it in the trash," he says, waving his hand. Forty investigates the kitchen area and eventually finds a bucket with a trash bag in it. She figures that's what he calls a trash can and tosses the Epipen in there.

"Thank you," she says, meeting the old man's eyes. He smiles, showing off yellowed teeth and silver dental implants.

"It's no problem. Don't wan' him dyin' on my couch," he laughs. Forty glances over at Thirty-Seven, finding peace in the steady rhythm of his breaths and the returning clarity to his eyes. "Dear, while yer friend is restin', why don't you come over here an' talk ta me?" The old man gestures to the rocking chair and small armchair near the couch Thirty-Seven is sprawled on. Forty looks around nervously, waiting for a camera to beep or for monitors to come racing through the front door. Instead, the old man busies himself pouring salted cashews in a bowl and bringing it over to the coffee table in between the chairs. "Sit," he says again, more firm but still unmalicious. Forty concedes.

"I'm Paul. What's your name, sweetheart?"

Forty feels the color leave her face. She can't say a number! While traveling in the woods she's had little time to think about trivial things like this, though she has briefly run through a list of names she's heard in the compound. Cade's reaction to her number designation was a prime example of why she needs a human name. Real humans have names, not specimen codes, so if she tells this man her real name she'll be made quickly. Forty thinks of one of the monitors who often made an effort to talk to Jane, even if it was met with contempt. She was a small, lovely woman who never seemed to have a bad day. Her name was sharp, delicate, like a glass instrument or crystal dinnerware.

"Phoebe," Forty says, testing the way it sounds on her tongue. She knows by Paul's odd look that she's said it more like a question, but blessedly he dismisses the quirk.

"You wanna tell me what's goin' on here, Phoebe?" he says, gesturing between her and Thirty-Seven.

"We were out in the woods, and he got stung by a bee," Forty says carefully.

"'N what were you two doin out in these woods? You know that's private property," Paul continues, though he doesn't sound angry. He looks Forty up and down, taking in her ripped scrubs and dirty skin. "Plus you don't wanna mess with what's out there. Plenty'a livestock been killed."

"Uh, we were collecting samples for a project," Forty answers quickly. Andres had mentioned to her what he used to do before getting bitten. He was a geology student.

"College project?"

Right, college. Humans go there after secondary school to learn more about careers, that's where Andres went. "Yes, uh, sir. We are geology students at a college near here."

Paul eyes her suspiciously, then glances quickly at Thirty-Seven. He's asleep, limbs as limp as noodles, and he hasn't stirred since they began talking. "Listen here, Phoebe," the old man says. He gestures for her to come closer, then lowers his voice. "I've got girls like you who come through here before. Scared, beat up. You don't have ta be scared no more. Just tell me if you're in danger and I can get rid of 'im." He draws a line across his throat, and it takes Forty a couple seconds to process what he's saying.

"Oh! Oh no, I'm not in any danger. It's really just a project, and we got a little lost. He's pretty messed up too, as you can see. Just tripping and all," she says, inserting a nervous laugh in the middle to make it seem more realistic. Paul still doesn't look convinced, but he does lean back to rest in his chair.

"Well," he grunts. "You got real lucky my grandson's allergic to bees too, otherwise you might have lost your friend there." He gestures at Thirty-Seven like a stray piece of furniture. "Now you look pretty dirty, sweetheart, and so does he. I got some old clothes might fitcha, and you can take a nice shower before you go home." Paul plants his hands on his knees before making a tremendous effort to rise out of the chair. Forty watches him closely as he goes into a side room. A metallic and cloth sound fills her ears and she relaxes when she realizes he is actually fetching them some clothes. Paul returns a few minutes later, just in time for Thirty-Seven to start stirring.

"Now I got here some a mine for the lady," he mumbles, handing Forty what looks to be a pair of jeans and an old, faded red t-shirt. She bristles at the color, transported back to that blanket decorated with poppies. She doesn't let the momentary surprise show on her face. "And here's some for the boy," Paul continues, handing Forty the same garb but in different colors. "These are my grandson's. Might fit him better."

"Th– thank you," Forty says, running her thumb absentmindedly over the fabric. Paul smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening.

"Wha's happened?" Thirty-Seven asks groggily, slipping onto his stomach on the couch and pushing himself up. His hand races to the back of his neck, wincing when he finds the sting.

"I found this lovely man's house after you got stung," Forty says, hoping that Thirty-Seven won't blurt out anything incriminating. Instead he finally rights himself on the couch and looks between Paul and Forty, his eyes bleary. However, it takes only seconds for Forty to see his nostrils flare and the immediate change in his expression.

His muscles tense along his arm, the start of his fangs poking out of his mouth, and Forty panics before throwing his pair of clothes at his head. "Paul's offered us a shower. Here." She gets up and walks tersely over to him, putting a firm grip on his shoulder. "I know you hurt your ankle earlier when you fell. I'll help you to the bathroom." She jerks him up quickly, smiling as placating as she can at Paul who sits stalwart and snacks on the salty cashews.

"He's a hu-"

"Huge savior, that's right," Forty interrupts loudly, practically dragging Thirty-Seven to the side room Paul came out of earlier. She can smell water in the pipes installed in the small room attached to what must be Paul's bedroom. Shutting the door violently, Forty tosses Thirty-Seven onto the toilet.

"Why the fuck am I not three inches deep in his organs right now?" Thirty-Seven snarls, pointing angrily at the locked door Forty leans against.

"He helped you. You can't eat him," she chides, pulling off the tatters making up her shirt and tossing them into the tiled area that must be a shower. She doesn't go anywhere near it, the mere thought of water making her pulse skyrocket, though she does force herself through deep breaths in order to quickly switch on the water. Paul might get suspicious otherwise.

"This is the same conversation we had about pets," Thirty-Seven gripes, crossing his arms and pouting. He's still a little swollen and red in the face, though he's able to emote better. "Just because food is nice to you, doesn't mean it isn't food."

"You didn't want to eat Missy," Forty says, giving him a pointed look.

"Th–that was different. I didn't even really know she was human. This one, though, really smells like it–"

"You will not eat this human," Forty growls, pointing angrily at Thirty-Seven. "He has given us clothes, medicine, and a chance to gather our thoughts. He's a helpful human. You won't eat him, I won't let you."

"He's not Josie," Thirty-Seven snaps. "Not all humans are nice and mean it. He could be dangerous."

"He doesn't know what we are," Forty whispers harshly. "I told him we're college students."

"What's college?"

Forty wants to put her head through the tile wall but opts to take a deep, long inhale instead. The steam from the shower is making her lightheaded, though the sound of the water isn't loud enough to mess up her hearing. She focuses on it as she tugs on the shirt, briefly distracted by Thirty-Seven's gasp.

"Really, red?" he growls, and when he looks up at Forty she sees the beginning of pink leaking into his eyes.

"It's not blood," she says, forcing Thirty-Seven to feel the hem of the shirt. "You're just hungry."

"Yeah, 'cause someone won't let me eat the hu–"

"Shut up."

Forty doesn't mean to say it, but it just slips out. There's an odd noise coming from beyond the bathroom wall, something like static and beeps. Thirty-Seven looks at Forty with a pout, wounded as he begins angrily tugging his new clothes on.

Forty hones in on the noise coming from the living room, realizing with a start that Paul is talking to someone. "Yeah... girl, about five foot six, blonde. She's with some guy, dark hair, maybe five eight... no I've never seen them... yeah she's pretty beat up."

"Paul is speaking to someone," Forty says lowly. Thirty-Seven looks up from where he's tugging on socks, his expression a mixture of sarcastic shock and smugness.

"I told you his intentions weren't good," he whispers, brushing past Forty to try and open the door. She slams her hand over his before he flicks the lock open, gesturing with a finger to her lips to let her listen.

"I'm out in the boonies... ha ha, yeah. You'll send an officer over quick? Good... yes, they're distracted."

"He is calling the police," Forty realizes. She backs away from the door, quickly trying to scan the room for an escape route. If she tries to go back through the living room to leave Paul will get suspicious. The last thing Forty needs is someone to ask too many questions, and Paul surely will when she tugs Thirty-Seven out his front door to sprint back into the woods.

"So I can kill him?" Thirty-Seven says, a little too excited for Forty's comfort. Forty shakes her head with finality and he quickly resumes sulking.

"There!" she says, pointing at a small window in the tiled shower room. She shudders as she turns the water off, a few droplets cascading down her hand. She frantically shakes them off. "You can't kill him 'cause the humans don't like murder, but I'll let you break his window."

"Fine," Thirty-Seven grumbles, walking into the shower to examine the small glass panel. His shoes keep him from feeling the residual water still draining. He cocks his head a couple different ways, then draws back his fist and punches squarely into the center of the window.

"Fuck!" he yells, shaking his wrist out. Forty sidles up next to him to see the glass has splintered, though it remains standing. She looks around for something heavy, luckily finding a mostly full shampoo bottle on the shelf next to her head. Forty lightly brushes Thirty-Seven out of the way to bang the cap against the center of the cracked glass. A few harsh jabs later and the glass crumbles to the floor in tiny specks.

"Don't cut yourself," she whispers as Thirty-Seven immediately begins crawling through the glass shards. He waves his hand back at her, and a small oof a few seconds later tells her he's on the ground.

Banging on the door. "Everything okay in there?" Paul yells. Forty remembers the water isn't hiding their noise anymore.

"Y-yes! I just dropped my um... necklace!" She practically flings herself onto the ledge making up the alcove of the window, sliding out head first.

"Phoebe, you're really worrying me here," Paul says. He jiggles the handle, throwing his full weight against the door when he realizes it's locked. "I'm coming in!"

Thirty-Seven pulls Forty out the last couple feet onto the ground, snarling as the little dogs rush at his feet. Forty shoos them away and pulls Thirty-Seven towards the fence line, all the while listening closely for any signs of people. It seems Paul is still trying to get the bathroom open, and Forty makes a break for the fence opposite the road.

Thirty-Seven and Forty run for a long time. They run until they can't smell Paul or his dogs, though even deep into the brush they can hear the shrill alarm of what must be police arriving at the house. It's only when they stop at the top of a relatively covered hill that Forty realizes she's held Thirty-Seven's hand the whole time. She squeezes it, only dropping it when the man makes a move to sit.

"Phoebe, huh?" Thirty-Seven says suddenly, resting his head back against a mesquite tree. The midday sun sends dapples of light across his face, making Forty want to smooth them away so she can see his expression better. He looks tired, skinny, and the dirtiness of his face looks odd compared to the cleanliness of the new clothes. Forty's are baggy on her, and his fit barely any better. It softens him, makes him look less angry than usual, and when he brings his knees to his chest and takes deep breaths to slow his heart rate, Forty wants to tell him all of that. She wants to imagine a time when they wear clothes like this every day, and he always smiles at her like that, and they're able to get clean again and eat as much as they want. 

"I... needed a human name to tell him," Forty explains, soothing a small cut on her arm from the glass. Thirty-Seven reaches over to smudge the blood away, wiping the stain into the dirt.

"It's a human name, but it suits you," he says, smiling warmly.

"You're not mad I didn't let you eat Paul?" Forty blurts, rubbing the spot he just touched.

"I know why you didn't, even if I don't agree," he admits, dropping his head into his knees. He squeezes them, groaning miserably. Forty pats his back.

"I need a human name too," Thirty-Seven mumbles into his knees. Forty waits for him to pick it, but all he does is turn his head to look at her expectantly.

"You want me to decide?" she gawks. He nods quickly.

Obviously, she hadn't given much thought into male names. She knew some gender neutral ones, though they weren't as fun to say as many of the female names. "How do you want it to sound?" she asks, needing a baseline.

"How does yours sound to you?"

"Sharp," Forty says simply. Like an insect, each syllable short and making a buzzing sound in her mouth.

"Then make mine sharp too," Thirty-Seven says, unraveling from his ball to sprawl on the ground.

Hmm, what is that band Thirty-Seven likes? Forty remembers the record laying in the bag she stashed away before hunting for the doe. She groans when she thinks about having to find it again. Thirty-Seven will lose his mind without that record. It did have the names of the band members on the back, and each was short enough Thirty-Seven could remember the name on a whim, though cool enough that he'd like it. Which one does Forty like best?

"Mick."

Thirty-Seven busts out laughing, stunning Forty. "What?" she squawks, offended.

"You named me after the Motley Crüe guitarist," he guffaws, pounding his fist on the ground.

"You don't mind having a human name like a guitar man?" Forty asks, genuinely worried she's made the name seem cheap. He pats her arm, shaking his head quickly.

"It's a really cool name. I'm named after my favorite band." He flips over in the dirt, already scuffing up the new clothes. The hives and wound on the back of his neck are practically already gone, though Forty feels a momentary strike of sadness when she realizes the sting was over his bite scar. She resists the urge to reach out and trace the mark. "I like that it's a name you gave me."

Even though it's hot and the the area around them isn't too pretty, Forty wishes she could paint the image of them looking over the hill together. In the far distance, red and blue lights flash along the road, but here in this little spot of shade under a tree, all Forty sees is gold. Though she wishes for a day when everything comes easy to her and she's always with Thirty-Seven, she realizes from the way the sun arcs in his hair, the small curve of his smile, the beginnings of freckles on his cheeks, and the content on his face, that she has all of that right now. Though things began hard, in the afternoon sun and the closeness of her friend, everything feels simple.