On a certain level, he isn't sure which of them is in more over their heads here. They're both people on a mission; that fire, that purpose burns vivid red behind her eyes and a figurative ochre behind his, he can see it, feel it even. They both are invisible on the ground, burner phones with late-night texts from an unknown number. They disappear for days at a time only to resurface and collide once again.

A chuckle emanates from the other room. Sometimes he looks into her eyes and feels she could peel back his soul, layer by layer, and he might be inclined to let her. To see what she says of what she finds there. Sometimes he forgets that she was a prisoner of war in her own homeland, a weapon of destruction in another, and that means she doesn't know what weed smells like.

He comes in towards the bathroom, leaning against the door. He's got on dark blue sweatpants and nothing else, bare feet making very little sound on the hardwood floors. "Cannabis. You take the flowers, these...tightly formed buds and grind them up, smoke them." He smiles then, a bit dangerous, a bit softer because it's Wanda. "You wanna try?"

So many things start with that question.