The difference is more pronounced for Owen: ghost towns he rolled through were usually worse off. Tore up, carpet bombed, plant life growing over the shells of old buildings. Signs of fire, signs of fights. They could do worse than a layer of dust. They could do worse than a few cows to greet them.

If there isn't something waited beyond the immediate buildings. It's a little early in her acquaintance to ask Claire where the village might store weapons, but he might work it out while answering her own questions. For now, he keeps his eyes on a swivel, assessing shadows, movement, placing people behind them and looking for anyone ahead. No canyon might mean something getting in, as much as it means getting out.

And her question is especially fair, where he's from, so there's only an answering beat before his reply. "Got shut in a door, years ago. Nobody around to fix it." Best he could do to cut the rest and burn the ends, and that had been it's own set of problems.

"I do alright," he assures her. "Don't need a pinky for most tools or weapons."