In the absent, hollow space created by a half-decade, some things are bound to start to fade. Wrench can tell himself that he remembers the exact shade of brown in Grady's eyes and the precise angle of each strand of hair on his head, but these are just stories intended to make him feel better. When he really stops to think, he's forced to admit the degradation of the picture in his mind's eye. It's harder and harder to recall now the smell of Grady's preferred hair products and the cut of his jaw beneath the thick beard. Wrench wants to say he'd know immediately, but the truth is there's just too much uncertainty. He keeps the gun trained, wanting desperately to believe but knowing the cruelty of this place and the danger of letting down his guard.

Both Logan and Kurt died once before this place, didn't they? The bounds of this strange imagined town seem not to obey the laws of mortality. It could be that they've reached even further back in time and plucked his partner from a place before Malvo, before the blizzard, before Grady's tired pleas and Wrench's own demands for meticulousness. But then why would he be asking where they are? Wouldn't he have gotten the letter?

Wrench is no more silent now than at any other time. Confusion makes him grumble over his own breaths, frustration seeping from him in ways unknown to him. A sigh, a wordless murmur, the scuffle of his boots on the pinkened concrete. He's desperate to give in to what he knows he shouldn't allow himself. Like the naive peace of a full night of rest. Like trust. Show me where you came from. Where? He crooks his finger around the scene, a sweeping gesture to the buildings that surround them. If Grady was brought here same as he was, surely he'll lead them to something familiar.