Numbers blinks. The severity in which Wrench conveys his words seems to startle him. The implication that, should they leave, Numbers would be as he was before--dead and rotting in the ground. Christ, Wrench probably didn't even know where he was buried, if the police had recovered his body.

Their options seemed to be twofold--continue to masquerade in this shitty facade of a town with the guarantee that they'll be together (or at least in proximity to each other), or find a way out and potentially lose him again. What kind of a choice was that? Numbers slumps forward in his seat. Whatever energy that allowed him to converse in a reasonably lucid manner has been sapped from him again. He places a hand on his face, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ride out the sudden wave of exhaustion washing over him. His arms tremble more than ever.

After a few moments, he looks back up and manages to muster a reply. He seems almost fearful, a rare show of vulnerability in Numbers. It's hard to keep up a mask when you're half an inch from collapsing.

Then what do we do?