The impulse to run hasn't escaped Wrench either. Ever since he and Numbers were little kids, it's felt like his greatest defense. Maybe he never managed to get far enough from anything to truly escape. Maybe it never made a real difference in the end. But being able to take to the wind for a little while -- to put some distance between the two of them and everything around them -- Wrench is certain it's what kept them alive as long as it did.

Except out there, Numbers isn't alive anymore. So whatever the fuck this place is and however they ended up here, Wrench isn't so sure he's in a rush to leave it. If they manage to find their way out and their escape resets everything back to the way it was before, that means losing the only person who's ever really mattered a second time, and Wrench isn't sure he can do that. He's not sure he can admit to Numbers that the last ten years have been filled with mostly subsisting. Staying on the run, evading capture. And for what purpose? He doesn't want to admit how many days he couldn't really come up with one.

No, Wrench snaps his fingers shut, not quite sure what he's protesting. No, he doesn't want to tell Numbers how he spent that long, exhausting decade? No, he doesn't think they should find a way out? No, he's failed all his training and has nothing more to report about this place? He blinks, glancing from Numbers back to Teddy and watching his so-called spouse's assessment of their situation.

I woke up here with my gun and my knife. Why would they let us have our weapons, but not our clothes?