“Not 'mpos’ble.” Sam scratched at his chin. “Y’need time, though. Think we got 'nought t’make it happen?”
Sam’s eyebrows raised in spite of his clear and ineffective attempts to restrain them.
“Well.” He mused. “There’s a couple I know’ve kept with the train. Long as y’don’t put’em where we’re goin’, they’re yours.”
Tags seemed weirded out by the presence of the gas mask, but reluctantly continued in spite of Benedict’s existence. Together they hauled the wheelchair out of the hole, and Tags awkwardly stood by it as he addressed the pair.
“I can take care of myself just fine, mister.” Tags snorted, indignantly digging her knuckles into her hips to defy the very idea of someone telling her she couldn’t do something so simple as exist in a given area. “You’re not the only one here who’s lived through war before.”
Tesso, who was only spared from lying flat on his back by raising himself up on his elbows, glanced from her towards Benedict with a grave familiarity in his eyes. It was not a friendly look, but it felt like one stolen from the long, listless stares of his brothers in arms that extended past the horizon. Those eyes had seen war.