"Oh," he replies quietly, as though that explains anything. Not many people around who can speak that and frankly he's not sure she'll learn to speak cowboy, either. Maybe they would be better off meeting each other halfway on something they'd both have to learn - sign language.

Taking off his hat, he sets it down on the kitchen counter and runs a hand through his hair that's wet enough to wring out a few drops. He doesn't bother disguising how tired he looks, soaking wet and cold. It's taking all the energy he has left to sit upright, balance on this stool while sustaining a conversation.

"I spent a long time sitting in the well. Cold and wet. Listening to the water drip." As though that's the most normal thing to do. Just sitting in the middle of your own puddle of trauma, counting up your losses. "I just lost track of time, that's all."