Most circumstances, he wouldn't make her touch his bad hand, but it'll be enough work tying them together with five digits, instead of his full eight. "Sorry," he says reflexively, more for only having two full fingers to curve between her own, when he sets her down and links their hands. The lie, well, that's necessary. She can kick him all the way back to the other village, in a few minutes.

"Why don't you keep telling me about it," he suggests, pulling the nylon line from the pack and biting down on one end, looping the length between and around their torsos, making sure the loose ends can anchor around his shoulder, knot on the one opposite from her. "Where you need to go. I won't make you go on your own, we'll stick together."

In more ways than one, by the time he finishes lashing them together. He knows boats more than livestock, even now, and it might be fitting that he's knotting her in like a lifeboat against his hull. Pulling with his teeth, the setup lets him shoulder his pack. "Just keep hold of my hand, alright?"

He's not taking another step toward that lake.