Nah. Just mostly one. [It smarts a little, the backhanded approval, but he knows it's a more gracious gesture than he could demand. He smiles, just briefly. He always feels a little off-balance around Robbie, like he's one twitch from falling off a tightrope, but it makes it a little more encouraging when he feels he's doing alright keeping from pitching over.

He remembers that movie. He almost says something to tip his hand, something about how people like him wouldn't last long in a maximum-security prison because every person in the yard would have it out for them - something even about how prison was probably where he was headed before he showed up here, the natural consequences of a roadtrip to go murder a stranger - but there are some things he's keeping close to his chest. Not out of strategy, but just because they're fresh, bloody, sensitive wounds not ready for the bandages to be removed.]

It's okay, I'm not gonna be the guy saving the president either. Probably'll get killed looking for smokes in a booby trap. [He pats the pack in his ratty, mangled jacket.] I'm looking for a whistle. I figure if we send people out to do stuff who can't do it natural then at least they'd have a way to call out for help easy.

Though goddamn, I'd give an arm and a leg for the rats to haven't have eaten all the chips. Seeing a bunch of Dorito wrappers sitting around empty is kind of torture.