Abby barely slept. Those two nights were spent lying wide awake in bed, splayed out on her back, grinding her teeth. Now her jaw aches and her mouth tastes like blood, so she's just glad he doesn't point out how tired and quiet she is, that he lets her stand there and touch the bike with her hands.

The jacket she catches out of the air, clutching it up in her fists.

"It's okay," she says, turning to show him: she ripped the WLF patches off her clothing already, "But thanks. It's cool."