It's a charitable assessment: Rust's been limping along, crude crutch jammed under one arm, dirt-streaked bone clutched in the opposite hand, for hours. His clothes are filthy, his face dark with stubble and glistening with sweat. About the most that can be said for him is he's not visibly bleeding—and closer inspection reveals fresh scrapes in predictable places, aging bruises all up and down his limbs.

He doesn't even seem to register her at first—seems like he'll simply keep on, one agonizing step after the next. Then he stops, almost dangling between his makeshift supports. “You got water?” From the sound of his voice, he does not. Or not much.

He takes his bearings in a dazed way, eyes darting from her face to the underbrush to the sky, begins the laborious process of shifting his weight so he can tug at the—also grimy—strap across his chest, grab at the roll of cloth slung across his back. One-handed, he starts pulling it open. “Gotta show you something.”