[ Okay, sure, says the jumpstart twitch semi-shrug that precedes Luke tipping forward enough to reach a long arm across the way and shake her hand, nodding to her, cigarette clamped into the corner of his mouth. There is dirt under his nails but that's about all his hands have to say about him as a person.

When he takes the cigarette out of his mouth (glancing at it like the hand-rolled twist of paper and embers might inform him of its brand and origins), he holds it between pinched fingers. 'The gas station has more cigarettes' is knowledge he files away for later, somewhere between 'no one stays dead here' and 'moon? haunted'. The idea of staying long enough to explore that fact feels unlikely. ]

Maine's okay, [ he says, still talking angled-down. ] Every state's got a shit town.

[ He clears his throat, habitual. ]

I'm, uh. I'm holding out for a better explanation than bad dreams. Or the bullshit in the pamphlet.