She knows she’s making him uncomfortable. Come-into-my-shelter is sometimes as good as an enthusiastic arms-open greeting, in Joel terms, and she knows she’s as good as a ghost to him, but she finds herself searching the lines of his face for more signs of trouble anyway. So he’s not dead — are those a few more grey hairs she sees? Is he eating enough? Who makes sure he has a med kit, if she’s not around? He’s a survivor, but someone has to look out for him, too.

Tess doesn’t have those answers. She’d never dream of asking them out loud, anyway. This is a man of subtleties, a hand over you when crouched together in hiding, a quick pull of a gun without needing a direction, endless I’ve got it, I’ll get that, are you sure you can handle that. In turn, she minds his lines, and looks out for him in her way, too.

She turns from him, crouching into the blind and finding herself a spot to sit. She helps herself to routing through his pack, too, more to inventory what he’s working with than any real hunger.

“How far did you get out of Boston? How long as it been?”

Easy questions first.