No, he did say that, but truth be told, he'd rather die down here than live down here. He can't do this again. And he knows no one's coming, not because it's some kind of internalised helplessness, but because the house knows. He goes off on his own. Snoozes in his makeshift hammock by the willow trees where Malcolm's screams can't reach him. Goes all over town, here, there, everywhere, meets strangers and fast friends alike. Ends up getting caught up in someone else's problem. Maybe someone's gone missing and he's offered to help go looking. Maybe it's Fashion Disaster Thursday and Doc is holding bags of unpaid purchases outside Poe's finest flannel selection. Maybe he's still figuring out how to make a birthday cake in the library. In any case it's normal for him to not return until it's drinking hour with some canned fish and chickpeas and a jar of prunes that nobody wanted from the General Store that day. Nobody knows. Nobody's looking.

"Okay," Doc mutters seemingly in agreement but with his eyes downcast and the way he nods a few times it is apparent that he doesn't know what he is agreeing to. At least Raylan has gotten him to stop, but there's no guarantees that he would just stay there for long. He needs to find a way out. Dig with his bare hands if he has to.

"We are on our own." At least he's communicative, and still using his inside voice. The meltdown might have started but he's still coherent. "We needa keep movin'."