Owen wouldn't say he was uncomfortable with tears: he's had a long time to get used to the ways people can crack under pressure, or leak just enough to keep going. Kamala crying is good, even--it would be worse if she just stood silently, if she went into shock.

But Owen's always approached it like a thing that isn't happening. When his mother found her own hole on the ship to hide in, and it wasn't safe to go to her--her crying was like a storm, or a ghost wailing in the hull. Something too big, and not quite real. Nothing he needed to deal with. On the roads and paths between settlements, if a straggler wanted to cry, if a kid wanted to have a fit at the unfairness of the world, all that mattered was the noise, or if they kept walking while they did it.

Here: does it matter? He can't be sure, not after the Wendigo, not with some unheard call trying to walk people into the lake. Owen leads her in by the hand and lets her have his shoulder, cups a hand to the back of her hair and crouches. "It's fine," he tells her, and if she leans into him he'll lever her up, ready to carry her into the next village if it means she won't go back.

"You haven't been awful, I'll get you home, it'll be alright."