"Yeah," he answers easily, though it comes with a skip-beat moment and question--does he show what he's done, does it matter one way or the other? His work is the only area he'd ever let anyone call him shy, but it's also the only thing of himself worth showing off. It always felt like a break in the wall of Jude Sullivan, to flip open the sketchbook and show the things in his head.

Thankfully, what he has to show off here are landscapes. "Here," he says, "if you want to see."

Walking toward the dining room, with its window bench where he's moved most of the bed things, he's managed to use recovered nails to pin the big sheets of raw paper up on the walls. There's a crude map in one corner, then just--trees, caves, collapsed houses. Thick shadows painting foreboding between thin trunks; lighter grey spaces for the mystery of dusk on the forest's edge. In another corner, there's a field in foggy, smudged lack of detail. That one isn't the canyon, just--trying to remember home before he arrived. "There are a lot of trees to sketch," he tells her wryly, like that's all there is to it.