Idly, he wishes there was a piece of paper with him - but there isn't. So he resolves to commit it all to memory.

The anger is there, burning right under his skin.

Not all the symbols inspire association - the flower is a daisy, maybe. The pentagram could be whatever bullshit Claire had told him about demons and ghosts - though that could be John, and Henry, too and Five isn't quite sure why he even thinks of them.

Last time he'd checked, they were alive.

Last time he'd checked, his family was too. And that's the disquieting part that makes his stomach uneasy.

Truthfully, he isn't sure what else to think, thoughts spinning fast enough into silence, but he gravitates back to the row of six, and crouches down. His knuckles are red from the snow, and he must've slices one open from digging away with numb hands.

"The hell happened to you, guys?" Let it be clear that this isn't a question of acceptance.