Trust is something Wrench has much more of now than when he and this woman first met over five years ago. Though one is a number that represents much more than zero. Any amount might be significant compared to the high-strung, uncertain animal he was back then. Time has done nothing good for him. It's Deerington that has shown Wrench a life beyond his own hiding. The months that he's been here have been good for him, death rooms and monsters aside. He's almost forgotten to wonder after the things isolation gave him time to mull over. Like what this woman thought when he turned up missing from his hospital bed, and how hard she might've searched for him.

She'd be happy to know he was on his way to prison, he thinks. She'd be glad to think justice was served, and true to her word he was bound to spend the rest of his life in prison. Right now, nothing is a certainty. Wrench watches her crouch and wonders again about hatred and forgiveness. Everything she represents terrifies him, but he doesn't hate her. Not even with the hot sting of acid in his gut, reminding him of that aching wound. He follows her gesture, and turns his boot to tap the eyeball with the side of the sole. It rolls back in her direction, and Wrench waits for her to stand.

By now he knows this isn't purgatory, and there's no amount of proving himself that will lead to the outcome he thinks he's looking for. But Wrench considers the overflow on his plate -- the excess compared to how starved he was just months before -- and offers it out toward her.