How do you find something that someone else lost? How do you let them look for it in you when you're so damn lost yourself, that sometimes your head just wanders straight away from your body? Bodhi isn't like anyone he's ever known, except - there's something there. There's something he feels like he could understand if he just pays enough attention, or gets enough pieces lined up. Its always felt that way, even if he doesn't feel any closer to knowing why than he did after the earthquake gave them reason to talk.

At least he doesn't have to feel like a complete ass, trying to justify it in his head. Bodhi says it out loud, finally - that he's pushing against something, and he needs to. Absolution's good enough, to turn over a hand in his lap and let Bodhi take hold.

Maybe he doesn't have to hate every memory of that night. Some are funny in their new context. He - he met Bodhi, that night. The first person he saw when he crawled out of the fountain. "Do you remember when I got here," he asks, voice pitched low, but at least he's letting Bodhi have his way with his hands. "When the sun wasn't setting."

What a pair of disasters: one a drowned rat and the other a parched hermit. "I thought...I had a rock on me the whole time. I thought I'd hit you with it and run away." It's a joke, compared to where they are now, but it's also just - the mind he brought here. The reflex he carried at the time. Even sitting here, trying to think about Bodhi, he's remembering. He'd been ready to hit back at something, waking up from a blow to the head.

The joke falters its landing, as he goes quiet and tucks back in.