Nash shakes his head, in some good humor. "You don't know that. The slow deaths are the worst ones."

It seems like she's doing better— he raises to his toes, then back down again. The truth is this is the kind of stuff he was never trained for. Nash never wanted to be the sort of person written by what other people told him to do, but he had to wonder how he kept winding up here, alone in the wild, trying to make someone who was better than him learn how to see that.

Oh, well. It's better than getting peed on by dogs.