Getting out of the inn is one thing, but the distractions that kept most people outside have still left them on the immediate path. Owen stands out less, perhaps, for the supplies, and more for the still-shorn hair, jaw no patchier than a few days neglect would bring him, and utter lack of recognition he has for anywhere he looks or anyone he looks at.

Half his unease is for how much others seem to understand, how many bonds he's seen played out that he simply doesn't have. Being the odd one out in a group that's just gone through a crisis--that never plays out well. He can only hide so much apprehension, standing straighter when the man approaches him so directly.

"No," he answers, "I don't think we did." He tips his chin up, indicating the people still centered between inn and fountain, talking and rounding up animals wandered from their homes. "Everyone doing okay?"