Cal smokes in silence for a few minutes, feeling his body's other complaints start to really register.

(It's easiest to think about that.)

He's been so tense that without the adrenalin that's been continuously flooding him, it feels like he's been awake for days instead of hours; he hasn't eaten since dinner last night; his careless race through the patch of forest toward Tina has left a few sore spots that will probably be bruises tomorrow.

"Is there anything in the kitchen?" he asks, when his cigarette is half gone.