She's probably right. The low hum at the back of his mind, the nagging sensation of being followed— those are things that he's used to, more so than the persistent, yawning silence of this place. But his instinct has always been to fight first, to turn on the threat, seek it out, and silence it. It's stuck him into a negative feedback loop that's left him edgy and paranoid, more so than usual.

It's the fire that attracted him, having gotten the idea in his head that whatever's following him might have stopped to get its bearings, but once she's close enough to recognize, he stops. She says something, and... right, out here it's garbled.

He holds up one hand, a hopefully universal signal for one second, and stoops to dig through his travel pack. He's yet to meet anyone he's been able to understand or who's been able to understand him, and so he's started hoarding anything that might help: an old moleskine journal with only the front cover, the unprotected back pages wrinkled and damp, which he shoves under his arm; the beepy little rectangle that won't stop beeping at him, which he unceremoniously drops on the ground beside him; and finally, what he's looking for— tiny, chunky plastic walkie talkies clearly made for children, painted in too-bright camo.

He holds one out to her, miming a low underhand toss so that she knows what he's about to do before he, yes, tosses it to her.