He's used to Jensen rambling on a million miles an hour. His comprehension is wonderful, but his default mother tongue is always going to be Spanish and as far as speech goes, unless it's Spanish, it's not coming quickly. He exhales in a short and impatient breath, giving her an expectant look.

"Our things," he says. "Where are they?" Because he knows that he had his rifle, his hat, and the clothes on his back (not to mention that chocolate bar he'd been saving, stashed away in his pocket)