Rust holds her eyes another moment—as if he might discern there, through the intervening darkness, something not in her voice. Gives a twitch of a nod. “Lemme get the candle.”

The candle's bundled in the cloth lump worn on his back, now set beside the patch of ground he'd been drowsing on. He drags himself a few feet and grabs at it, half-shuffles, half-crawls back to her with it in his lap. Rummaging inside he produces a tuna can clotted with fat, sets it between them and touches his lighter to it. It glows low and steady.

He hands over the knife, blade folded in—solid and well looked after but nothing special.