Forty can't stop shaking. She can't fully process her surroundings, stuck in an infinite loop of blood, shattered glass, and a hand reaching for her. Distantly she knows Thirty-Seven is leading her further into the woods, his hand a gentle pressure on her back, but in her mind she's still standing in front of the crash.

Always the hitchhiking.

What a shit show she's made. If there is one rule she knows, it's that humans do not like murder. Not only did she crash the driver's truck, but she also crippled him beyond recognition, and Thirty-Seven finished the job rather violently. The sirens started up about thirty minutes ago, and though the pair are barely within earshot, Forty still feels like there are eyes crawling across her back. Murderer. Murderer.

"Are you cold?" Thirty-Seven says suddenly, peering down at Forty. She doesn't hear him at first, just keeps staring unblinkingly at the ground ahead of her. The forest is nothing more than dashes of golds and browns, autumn having fully set in. It's all a blur to her. "Forty?"

She looks up, finally registering his voice. Thirty-Seven's brows are furrowed, his lip busted from either his fangs or from chewing on them. "I don't know," Forty replies truthfully. Chupas don't normally get cold, though it is slowly approaching sunset and an abnormal quiver won't leave Forty's hands.

"We can stop for the night." Thirty-Seven stills his hand on her back, letting it linger as he pulls away. He scans the area and, deeming it safe, pulls Forty towards a group of trees that have maintained most of their leaves. The ground underneath is soft and springy with long grass and the remnants of fallen foliage. He sets Forty back against one of the larger trees, then moves to sit cross-legged in front of her.

"Are you mad at me?" Thirty-Seven asks, watching Forty carefully. She shakes her head, trying to clear the last of the blood behind her eyes away.

"Then what's wrong?"

"I... I killed him," she mumbles, Trent's bloodied face and broken body clouding her vision. "I broke his hand, and that made him crash and hurt himself. I killed him."

"Forty, I ripped his throat out," Thirty-Seven says matter-of-factly. He shimmies across the leafy ground to lean against the tree, thunking his head back against the bark.

"Yes... but I made it to where there was no way he could live." Maybe Forty is cold, because there can be no other reason why this infernal trembling won't stop in her hands. She folds them up tightly and tucks them under her arms.

"You're doing it again," Thirty-Seven says, poking at her arm to get her to relieve the tension in her shoulders. "This isn't your fault. You didn't owe that asshole shit, no matter what he says. He shouldn't have touched you."

A hand on her leg, his smelly breath too close to her face. The bobble head jiggling on the dash. A gun in her face. Forty doubles over and vomits, her head swimming. She feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes but the last thing she wants to do is cry. Thirty-Seven pulls her away from the puddle of sick, heading deeper into the tree cover. She watches his face as he walks, the grim set of his jaw and the scabbed slash over his eyebrow. "Are– are you okay?" she asks tearfully as Thirty-Seven lowers her down among some brush. She sweeps a thumb in the dried blood along his temple.

Thirty-Seven grabs her wrist, moving it back down to her lap. "I'm fine," he says, giving her a tired smile. "It's just a little scratch." He feels along the crown of her head, then towards the back. With gentle hands, he guides her face this way and that, lifting her eyelids and peering closely at her pupils.

"I didn't hit my head," Forty says, letting said head lull against her shoulder. At least, she doesn't remember hitting it.

"I think it's whiplash. How's your neck?" Thirty-Seven presses in different spots around her throat. One particular jab makes her cry out. "Yep. That's what I thought."

"I'm sorry," Forty says miserably. She can't quite focus enough on his face to check him over, but she reaches out anyways and gently cascades a hand over his face and neck.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for." Thirty-Seven reaches out and swipes away an escaped tear with his thumb. The touch is just a whisper of warmth on Forty's skin. "You did great. You're strong, and you showed him that. You weren't a pushover."

Don't be a pushover.

Oh god, what have I done?

"I miss Forty-Five," Forty sobs, the weight of everything finally crumbling around her. Her shoulders ache when she leans forward to rest her head against Thirty-Seven's clavicle. "She's still there, and I left her, and now Cade's group has to move because we escaped and I just killed someone and ruined everything!"

Thirty-Seven awkwardly wraps his arms around her, pressing her closer to his chest. "You didn't leave her, you'll see her one day," he says, smoothing a hand down Forty's back. She can tell he isn't used to this by how light the pressure is, almost as if he's afraid of hurting her. "And everything is fine. Cade moved everyone, and they're still all together. The police won't find us. We're in Cotolla. We're close, almost done."

Forty nods against his shoulder, inhaling his natural scent to force out the smell of blood and gasoline. "What we need to focus on now is how to get to Naila."

"Yeah, Naila," Forty mumbles, remembering the pink hair and paper map. She pushes off of Thirty-Seven who lets her go easily, watching closely as she leans back against a berry bush. Her whole body feels cold, and as soon as she's out of his arms the shivers return. "I... I think I'm having a panic attack ," Forty wheezes, remembering the symptoms like an old recipe.

"How do I help?" Thirty-Seven says frantically, looking around like some magical tool will appear to solve the problem. His immediate anxiety would be endearing if it wasn't because of this situation, but it makes Forty laugh anyway. He looks at her like she's just started spouting Latin.

"I just... need to breathe," Forty says, focusing on taking square breaths. She runs through the five senses method, and between the tree at her back and Thirty-Seven in front of her, she feels grounded enough to take in her surroundings. They're at the base of a hill, the trees and low-trailing brush providing plenty of cover. Even though most of them are bare, wild grape vines and low-hanging branches create a nest of invisibility. With the sun sinking in the sky, Forty feels safe here, far away from the crash and all the violence.

"You need to eat," Thirty-Seven commands, looking uncomfortable with the whole situation. "I'll go find something." When he gets up his hand slides off Forty's shoulder, and suddenly it is very, very cold again. Though she wants to yell out or even grab his hand and make him stay, she just curls into herself tighter and watches as he disappears into the night.

In the dark surrounded by animal noises and the slowly cooling wind, Forty realizes she doesn't like to be alone. At the compound that always seemed to be the only option. Chupas were kept separate because they are solitary by nature and aggressive towards others.

Forty-Five was a rarity, and though Forty didn't realize it at the time, she made the compound feel brighter. Even if they weren't actively looking at or speaking to each other, Forty knew the woman was just a wall away. It made nights like these less lonely, though the forest in Vaine was much quieter. She even had Cade's group there, who yet again proved that Chupas are not solitary. Forty wonders if it has just been her this whole time, but the forest amplifies her loneliness.

Here, it seems the animals come alive, the yips of coyotes rising over the singing of crickets. Every now and then, birds take wing overhead, scattering the rodents hiding among the bushes. Forty knows she's an apex predator, but sitting alone in the dark is terrifying. Not only can she hear, smell, and see everything, but she's alone with her thoughts, and the mind is the scariest place of all.

"I'm back." The branches crunch as Thirty-Seven wades through them, the broken wing of an owl in his hand. Forty avoids looking at the thing's tongue hanging out of its mouth, its bloodied feathers too similar to the color of Trent's face. Thirty-Seven notices her grimace. "Come on, don't be like that. You need to eat."

Forty takes the creature from him reluctantly, plucking a few neck feathers so she doesn't feel them when she bites down. She wants to vomit the whole time she feeds, but most of all she knows Thirty-Seven is right. Even if Forty doesn't feel hungry she's thrown up twice, and she absolutely needs to eat. "Good," Thirty-Seven grunts, taking the bird's body into the woods when Forty finishes. She's grateful she doesn't have to look at it now that its basically a sack of skin and feathers.

He flops down in the grass next to her, resting his back on a large expanse of bark. Forty doesn't know if his night vision is as good as hers, but right now she can see him in clear relief. Thankfully the cut on his eyebrow seems to be the worst of the damage, a few spare scrapes littering his arms and his bitten lips the only other injuries Forty can see. He looks tired, not in the way he had when he was starving, but human tired. His eyes open and close with effort, each blink lasting a second too long. He sways in place when the wind gusts too hard, and a small shiver racks his body.

"Are you cold?" Forty asks, watching as he brings his knees to his chest.

"I don't get cold," he yawns, burrowing further against the tree. Now that fall is in full swing, nights are frigid and wet. They've never been in a place without temperature regulation until the escape, and until now the weather has been relatively warm. Tonight, it seems like they've transported to a different place, one where it's all too easy to seek comfort from one another.

"Can I hold you?" Forty asks, her mouth too honest now that she's sated her hunger and come down from the panic attack.

Thirty-Seven looks soft in the dark, his eyes a cool, reflective yellow when he turns to her to give her a quizzical look. He glances between her arms and her mouth, and at first Forty worries he's watching for her fangs. Then, like the strings holding him together have been cut, he flops like a rag doll onto Forty's shoulder.

His hair tickles under her jaw, and she realizes he smells sort of like the crisp air and dusty leaves surrounding them. His breaths are too symmetrical, and Forty can feel how tense his muscles are against her. She's noticed from the few times they've touched that Thirty-Seven views affection as all or nothing. He either avoids contact like the plague or melts into it. Now he seems stuck somewhere in between. Forty doesn't know what makes this time any different.

"Forty, am I a friend to you?" Thirty-Seven asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Forty adjusts her arms around him so his head is on her lap, the warmth of his back radiating into her stomach. She works her fingers through that soft dark hair, picking at knots that have formed over their time in the wilderness.

"Yes," Forty says simply, but she knows it doesn't end there. Forty-Five is a friend, but Forty has never felt as captivated or nervous around her as she has Thirty-Seven. She could hug Forty-Five, but she couldn't do this with her, or at least it wouldn't feel as gut-wrenching as it does with Thirty-Seven. Forty-Five is a friend, but Thirty-Seven is something beyond Forty's vocabulary. She supposes the word 'friend' will do as a placeholder.

"I've never had a friend," Thirty-Seven says, subconsciously leaning into her hands. Forty can see the way his eyes flutter, those uncharacteristically feminine lashes kissing the bags surrounding those bottomless pupils. "But if this is what it is, I'm okay with it."

With him here, a tangible thing that has shared all of Forty's past, has seen the ugliest parts of her and chosen to stay by her side anyways, the dark doesn't feel so lonely anymore. Rather, it's a twilight blanket around their shoulders, a dome of stars just for them to share. A dome of stars that's getting blacker, the lights swirling across her eyes. She swallows thickly.

"Why am I still cold?" Forty groans, trying to force her head up. Her brain squeezes itself, and suddenly the foul smell of old blood hits her. She feels around the back of her head, her fingers coming back carmine.

Thirty-Seven's head shoots up, his nose twitching. "I thought you said you didn't hurt your head."

Forty can't answer, her head lolled limply back against her shoulder.

☠️☠️☠️

She wakes to the smell of rain. Her nose twitches.

"It started a few hours after you passed out."

They must be in some sort of cave. Forty watches him in the green dying light cutting in through the craggy gap, the grayness of the sky washing out the warmth in his eyes. The heat of his frustration almost trumps the glowing embers slowly giving way to the sideways sheets of rain misting in through the leafy entrance.

"I'll be okay, really. It's just a small gash," Forty calls from her makeshift bed on the floor, her voice not quite carrying like she means for it to. She's too tired to shiver at the way her wet hair clings to her neck, most of it up and tied away from the back of her head to reveal the still oozing wound.

"Why did you have to flag down a car?" Thirty-Seven growls, turning two slitted eyes on Forty. She's weak right now, too weak to remember that this is how Thirty-Seven cares. Instead, she just stares vacantly, barely registers the slip of tears that trails down her face. That old mistress, disappointment, crawls icy fingers up her back. Why can't you do this, why can't you do that? Forty wants to scream, can't you see I did it for you?

Her body feels colder, perhaps even colder than a human's. She draws the blanket tighter over her, realizing it's Thirty-Seven's overshirt, the blues washed out in sepias and oranges from the fire. She hopes she doesn't bleed on it. Forty feels drawn out, like a string that's been pulled to its tautest, so pale and tight and withered that it could snap with a harsh breath. The bleeding must have stopped, right?

Two feet appear out of the fog surrounding her eyes, some beat-up sneakers with a hole in the toe. "You're dying, aren't you?" a voice says, and despite its uncaring air and anger it sounds burdened, like whatever the owner of it is facing is momentous. It's a far cry from the gentle way he told her she is no murderer. A hot thumb traces down the side of her cheek to push in the middle of her lip. "Blue," he says. Blue, just like your shirt.

"Fuck," Thirty-Seven breathes out, curling his hands tightly in his hair. She looks like a corpse already, and he's seen it before, known that something like this could kill a human. How close is she to that same fate, when her skin is porcelain and her eyes are gone?

"Think, think, what would she do in this situation?" Thirty-Seven murmurs out loud, folding to his knees and bringing her wrist up to his face to count her pulses. He used to do it for himself all the time when coming out of the sedative, that terrifying half-death. If he could count enough, he knew he was still alive.

"S'ven," Forty says, shifting her head to thunk against his knee. The way she says his name is too casual for what they are, too warm for how he's just yelled at her. Her shaky hand bends at the wrist to curve around his jaw, the fingers like kisses of ice. When he looks into those hazy brown eyes, he sees a glimmer of amusement. It makes his chest hurt. "T–tie something around my head. You have to... you have to slow the bleeding."

Right. Right, how could he not think of something so simple? He places her hand delicately against her chest and pulls the shirt tighter over her, trying not to stare too much at the expanse of graying skin turned dusty by the firelight. Cade taught him how to start fires, he just didn't think he'd ever need to. He grabs onto the edge of his tattered shirt and rips a long piece of the thin fabric off, taking extra care to make sure it's a relatively clean piece. Infections aren't fun, he of all people should know after the countless bite wounds.

"I'm going to pull you up a little," he warns, letting Forty brace her arms around her chest so he can haul her up around the shoulders. Her head lulls backwards against his neck, leaving her face to face with his bite scar. He hates when she sees it, despises the way the light seems to go out in her eyes and she becomes sad and distant. Most of all, he loathes how it still brings back memories of that day, the fear and the excitement, the precursor to all this torture.

Forty burrows her head against his collarbone as he winds the strip tightly around her head, making sure the thickest part rests over the wound. The bleeding is definitely slowing, but the owl she ate earlier is doing nothing for her body. Fuck, how is she still bleeding? If only he'd noticed the wound earlier, maybe she'd have enough blood to at least walk him through what to do.

"Better," Forty mumbles against him, her hands flexing weakly against her arms. Thirty-Seven chances a glance down to see the puncture scars in her shoulders, the little divots by her cheeks where the ports used to be. God, he's been selfish today, hasn't he?

Thirty-Seven has spent most of his life believing himself to be the thorn in the lion's foot, the most important thing in the story and also the most hated. When he was younger, things were easier. His first monitor was an older woman, as they typically are on the green floor, and she treated him with a detached sort of minding, not speaking much but to force him into clothes, lessons, and feedings.

She wasn't cold, however, just absent, but he loved her. She didn't hit him like the other monitors did, didn't spray him when he acted out. That one time he bit her, she gave him a bored look, not recoiling and trying to break his jaw with a slap. It was easier that way, because he learned through testing. No one ever bothered to tell him what was going on, when his next meal would be, when he could go to sleep. He had to break the rules and rebuild them around himself, but when you're young and weak this can be a liability.

As he got older, things became more blood-colored, more harsh. Ben took over his care when Thirty-Seven was in his mid-teens, believing in the principles of dominance and control. His worst tool was the sedative, which destroyed Thirty-Seven's sleep cycle, making him more irritable and explosive. It was a never-ending cycle of violence, even the periods where he would end up in the infirmary after a fight. His treatments were detached, painful, antiseptic. If what Forty says is true and he really is half-human, he's never felt it before. He was always a beast in the compound, something to be reigned in.

It never occurred to him that this pure thing in his arms could have gone through the same treatment. Forty is talkative and inquisitive, so bright and full of hope for the world. This whole time, has it been a mask for what's really stewing in her head? Has he been blinded by his own trauma, that he forgot that she too is a victim in this?

Fuck, I'm crying. Thirty-Seven adjusts his hand on Forty to scrub aggressively at his eyes. He can't stain that shirt she's wrapped in. Right. That's why he should stop crying.

"I... 'm not gonna bite you," Forty mumbles, turning her head away from his chest. The move reveals the long column of her throat, the faded pink scars along her jugular and trapezius. You're just like me.

"You don't scare me," Thirty-Seven says instead. He pulls down the collar of his shirt, revealing an unmarked shoulder. It's not his neck, so it's okay. It won't make him remember. It takes him a second to swallow the lump in his throat because suddenly a horrifying thought occurs to him. If she dies, who will watch over him? No, if she dies, he'll lose the one thing that gives him hope the world can be beautiful. "You gotta bite me, Forty."

Two glassy brown eyes stare helplessly at him, her brows furrowed. She shakes her head weakly in his palm. Forty thinks of watchful eyes on her as she buries her teeth in Thirty-Seven's throat, the surge of her venom in her body, the release of it in the cup. Over and over again— a chicken neck, a human neck, it's all the same. Their cries are the same, their pain and fear. She can smell it on him again, hot and thick. She feels his hands bunch in her hair.

Thirty-Seven has never been a gentle man, but when he's with Forty he wishes someone taught him how to be. "Please, please just fucking do it. For me."

It's always been that way for her. Do it for the other person, not for yourself. It makes hurting others easy, makes her forget her own fear. Forty sniffles back her tears as Thirty-Seven leans her against his shoulder.

She tries to be soft, thinks of that day in the lab when she realized he needed touch too. Forty grazes her cheek over the meat of his shoulder, feels the warmth against her freezing skin, and presses a feverish kiss to it before opening her shaking jaw to pierce him. He doesn't want to show that this hurts him in a myriad of ways, but his body has always been too honest. She feels the tremble in his fingertips where his hands dig into her back.

"Th– that's good," he still manages to grit out, trying to busy his nervous hands with brushing the dried blood out of her hair. He's had too good a feed recently to get lethargic quickly, and she only takes enough to gain some color back and stop the bleeding. When her fangs leave his shoulder, he almost misses her. That's always been the dichotomy of them, he supposes, both the fear and the wanting. She's all savage beauty, powerful muscle and keen eyes, and at once she is both the most terrifying thing he's seen and the most remarkable. As she comes out of the feed, he can see the light returning to her eyes, the dash of flush on the tops of her cheeks.

"Are you okay?" she asks, smoothing a hand down his arm. The puncture wounds have already scabbed over, so she pulls the shirt sleeve back up. Her hands don't leave his arm.

Sound escapes Thirty-Seven, so instead he nods against her. He knows this dance they do, the need for each other followed by the rejection. Tonight, under the crying sky and the crackling fire, he breaks the cycle, bringing Forty closer against him. Too embarrassed to say why, he simply mutters, "Cold."

Thirty-Seven watches at the smoke from the fire curls away from their intertwined bodies, the ghost of a smile from pretty lips against his neck. She knows.

☠️☠️☠️

"If I remember correctly, we should be a day's travel from Naila."

Thirty-Seven doesn't acknowledge Forty's words as he swats at the low-hanging branches in their path. The leaves are loud under his feet and they make the uncomfortable silence more noticeable. Forty finds herself falling into the same gait as him just to avoid the echo.

Where it was easy to fall into each other under the privacy of darkness, waking up in each other's arms to the early morning sun was jarring to say the least. Forty had slipped down his shoulder sometime in the night, making Thirty-Seven roll over to accommodate her. She woke up to warm puffs of breath on the back of her neck and his arm secure around her shoulders and waist.

It's nice to be held like this, she'd thought, barely daring to breathe in case she woke him up. Though Forty craved the casual affection she'd seen between people, it had always been refused to her. Violence is the only true emotion for Chupas, after all. There has been shades of it at Cade's campground, yet it was never enough. But laying wrapped up together in the warm sun, the dapples between the leaves and cave entrance laying dark freckles across Thirty-Seven's soft face, it was so easy to pretend there's more for Forty. A warmth wormed its way into her chest, and she could barely contain her smile as she burrowed further into Thirty-Seven's embrace.

"Oh! Sorry," Thirty-Seven jumped, almost leaping completely over Forty's body in his haste to unravel from her. He quickly slapped the dirt from his clothes, refusing to look up at her. Forty's stomach dropped down to her feet, immediately embarrassed that she'd let go of her inhibitions.

"Um... me too," she'd said dumbly. "L–lets's get moving." They didn't even stop to catch breakfast before trudging in the direction of Naila's cabin. The travel time was Forty's first attempt at conversation since then. Her head still aches, but her heart is worse.

The woods here are thick with trees, most of the foliage focused high in the branches and only the skeletons of leaves carpeting the ground. The array of colors is jarring compared to the monochrome world Forty came from, but she finds that the more she stares at the golds, browns, and reds, the less overstimulating the hues are. In fact, they become quite pretty, and as the pair make space between them and the road, the fresh scent of the air becomes invigorating.

The dry coolness of the wind is a welcome balm on Forty's head. She's never had an ache like this before, nothing like the bone-deep throbbing in her skull. Her neck is very sore too, reminding her of the way the strain in her jaw used to radiate down her throat after venom sessions. The thought makes her look up at Thirty-Seven, merely a spot of dark clothes farther up the slowly inclining hill.

"Did I do something wrong again?" she calls, pausing in her steps to focus more on her words. She tends to do that with him. It is as if the line between her mouth and brain scrambles when she reaches out.

Thirty-Seven stops just before the curve of the hill, so immediate that he sways from toe to heel. "Do I bother you, Forty?" he asks, his voice but a whisper on the wind.

Forty's stunned by the question, immediately trudging up the hill to see his face. She's not good at picking up the inflection in his words, but something tells her his expression spells it all out. She reaches out and grabs the end of his sleeve, curling around to his front to crouch and look into his eyes. "Don't look at me," he grunts, turning away sharply. Forty's hand wavers in its grip on his shirt.

"You don't bother me," she says, plain and simple. Sure, she is constantly stuck in a state of thought and most of those revolve around Thirty-Seven, but she's never wanted to be away from him. Actually, Forty's been coming to the slow realization that she doesn't want to be anywhere else but next to him.

"You don't mind that I... that I killed him?" Thirty-Seven says, jerking his head in the general direction of the road.

"No, you saved me," Forty answers immediately, trying to face him again. "What is this really about?"

He finally looks up to meet her eyes, and when he does Forty finds that she can't tell what he's thinking. There's just an impassible depth to him, like Forty is looking down a long black tunnel. "You kept looking at me like they used to," he says, gripping at the bite mark on the back of his neck. A surge of guilt travels through Forty. "That asshole, and all the other stupid humans. I always did something wrong." Thirty-Seven curls his fingers where his hair has grown out down his neck. "I'm gross. And even after that, I yelled at you. I yelled at you when you were hurt, and I got angry for no reason. That's not– I shouldn't do that."

Oh. Forty must have missed that in the daze of her concussion. Even now, trying to remember what happened at the crash and not just what it looked like is difficult. "I didn't mean to look at you that way. It wasn't you I was disgusted with."

Thirty-Seven shakes his head fervently. "Don't. You did everything right. When I woke up beside you this morning, all I could think about was how fucked up I am. Even though it was you he touched, you still didn't kill him. You're just so good, Forty. And before... before it was easy to react and attack when I needed to. But now, I want to be good too. I want to be good for you."

Forty stares at him for a while. She isn't sure what to say but she does know she needs to say something. However, there is too much she's feeling. How can she possibly put into words something that has no physical body? It's in her entire being, from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes, that Thirty-Seven is something special to her, nasty attitude and all. Plus, it seems that she's something special to him, too. The thought is so lovely it scares her.

"You're..." she breathes, trying to work her way around the words. She curls her fingers into the ends of his shirt, presses in close so she can hide her face in his neck. When she finds she's near the bite wound, she's almost disgusted with herself to find that she likes the look of it. "You're exactly what I need. You're good."

Thirty-Seven tips his cheek against her head, those long lashes tickling the tips of her ear. "I can't be as human as you are," he says. "I'll still get angry, still remember things. But I'm trying."

"That's okay. I've never wanted you to be anything but yourself," Forty murmurs, detaching herself from his neck to meet his eyes again. She feels embarrassingly honest now. The walls between them have always been just tall enough she couldn't see over them, but now she's grown. "I... I was jealous when you got along so well with the others at the camp," she admits. "I thought you wouldn't like me anymore now that you didn't need me."

Thirty-Seven shakes his head quickly. "I know I can come off as prickly, but I've never been truly angry with you. Fuck, how could I? You've always been there, even when I didn't want you to be. That's not something I can just throw away."

Forty erupts in crimson, quickly looking away so he doesn't see how red her face is. He thinks about her that way? Forty thought that was just a her thing. Her mind and pushiness often got her in trouble at the compound, and she figured it would be no different here. All this time, it's been exactly what Thirty-Seven needed. She smiles, proud of herself for once. "I'm–I'm glad," she laughs.

"Now let's, uh, let's keep running from the cops," Thirty-Seven coughs, seeming to come to terms with what he just said. The proximity between them has turned him into her, and he's terribly embarrassed that out of all her habits oversharing is the one he picked up. Forty nods, starting up in the direction of the hill. Naila's cabin awaits.