It's not just the lost year, guiding Kira's hands, informing his flat stare in the face of what now hardly seems adversity. Make fire, need wood. At least in the village they can make as much noise as they want, can move between buildings without fear of being shot or stripped of supplies.

Ty--this version--doesn't remember New York, either. Four months of sneaking and scraping, four months of living past his expiration date in a situation he'd never prepared for. A situation he's started to wonder--if it was just to prepare him for this.

Maybe it was just included, to prepare him for this. At that point, they at least shipped Ty to the village with his training. It's almost familiar, if at a year's distance, to listen to Ty chop the chairs to pieces at his back. That it's only familiar to one of them, trying to get a fire going in a squat, making tea on a wood burning stove out of what he has on hand--Kira is trying to deal with. Kira is trying not to lose his shit, the way he had when the wound on his side was fresh.

It's been a day. If no one else saw fit to tell him, Kira's not dropping the nature of their existence into his lap. His hands busy on the kettle, filling it in the sink. "Just me, here. No one else we know. But my family got out before you even found me, I assume they went to be with my sister; I don't know if they made it to the other coast."

Kneeling at the stove, he lets Ty pass him the pieces, arranging them beneath the grate. "I remember up to February. It was almost over."