Without the benefit of drugs or books—two kinds of escape hatch from his own psyche—Rust doesn't have much hope of sleep. For a while he hones in on the pain in his leg, lets the ache expand until it's blotted out everything else. In the ensuing stretch of pain-streaked half-consciousness his dreams are musical: reverberations and piercing notes.

He snaps awake from it, gropes for his walkie. Shaw's a dark lump on the ground. He almost pitches himself toward her, ready to crawl on his stomach, then remembers the crutch. He grabs it and prods her a couple times, wherever's closest, puts his free hand up in anticipation of the gun that's likely getting drawn. “Shhh shhh shhh,” he says, harsh and urgent. “Just me. Forgot to show you something.”