Wrench knows it's a losing proposition to act like he can keep avoiding this conversation forever, but right now he's selfishly grateful for the other man's lack of lucidity. If whatever's been done to him means that Wrench doesn't have to spend any amount of time right now accounting for the last ten years, that's for the better. He doesn't know how he'll ever explain to the man what happened in the aftermath. That the same man who put the blade to Numbers' throat tossed a key on Wrench's bed and granted him his freedom. That he'd tried first to do exactly that — to locate the body and to get it in the ground as fast as fucking possible.

By then a day had already passed, and Wrench had carried that guilt for years after. Not only was Numbers dead, they'd probably cremated his remains in some incinerator, and it had probably taken longer than 24 hours. There'd been no time for mourning; certainly as hell no fucking Shiva. Wrench had left the hospital and he'd run and run and never stopped running until they fucking caught him.

Again, thoughts of the past threaten to overwhelm him, even with Numbers sitting in front of him, very much alive and probably very likely to hit him if Wrench were to talk about funeral rites. I don't know, he admits instead, blankly. We have to be smart. We need more information. When we leave, we have to know where we're headed for. O-K?

Come on, you want to lay down?