The letter from S-O-D-D-E-R! It has to be here. Everyone gets one. Unless this is just another trap. Unless Grady isn't meant to stay in this place. Wrench doesn't stand around to watch more of his companion flake off like bits of sawdust taken in the breeze. He holsters his handgun and turns down the hallway in hurried pursuit of the kitchen. Maybe the trap is his own understanding of what he's condemning Numbers to. Any time spent in Deerington is not a gift, after all. But his knowledge makes him selfish. Wrench wants to exist with his partner in this space. And for all the men they've spent to their deaths and all the way they've justified it, he can't let go knowing that if the other man is alive here and now, his death is still imminent somewhere else.

He flips light switches as he goes, careless of anything outside his own pursuit. The cozy home seems bigger than it looks on the outside. Or perhaps it's his own urgency making his efforts that much more difficult. When Wrench finally finds the kitchen, he puts his fists on the counter and pounds in silent insistence that Grady follows.

You have to eat. Right now. Unceremoniously, he offers out the mason jar.