The sight of his name on the other man's lips looks all wrong to Wrench, and he realizes he can't remember the last time he's given it. It's not just that he keeps it shrouded like a secret. Sure, maybe some time ago he believed in the kind of power Rumpelstiltskin himself was forced to relinquish when his true name became known. But it's plenty simpler than that. He's simply been a shadow, a stranger to all. Hell, even Wrench knew and was known by others. They're all gone now, and the folks who knew Wes vanished well before that even. So maybe it isn't the name itself that's as strange as seeing someone say it. It assures his existence, and this of all places is the last one he's been hoping to find that kind of guarantee inside of.

Despite the clumsy fingers, Wrench nods at the man's efforts, and then again with greater acknowledgement to see it scrawled in the ground underfoot. It's not the most illuminating answer to the endless list of questions that come to mind, but at least it feels humane to know it. He trudges on, paying more of his attention to the perfectly-manicured hedges that surround them and the angle of the sun with every new turn they take. It's a tedious method, but thorough, and Wrench finds a new wave of relief every new corner they turn to an expanse of greenery.

The longer he has to dwell over it the more he finds the persistent sting in his arm a source of frustration. Wrench is sure all of this must be a dream, but he simply can't find the formula to wake himself back up. As if on cue, a glimmer of something ahead catches in the sunlight, and Wrench stalls. It takes a minute for his eyes to focus over the glare, but he rattles the chain between them for Jim's attention and points it out at the end of the row.