“Well, if that -- holy shit…” He breaks off to stare in wonder at the dotted lines of teeth and nails etched into her skin. His people don't have the hope of surviving this many close calls. You’re bit or scratched and from there it’s a mad race against the infection, if you’re lucky. There’s no bargaining or weaseling one’s way out of that death sentence unless you could hack off whatever part of you was torn up like wet napkin and manage not to bleed out or die of shock.

From what he’s hearing, Luke has a gut-stab suspicion that the military is going through the trouble of rounding up a handful of people like her in the hopes of better understanding the infection in a controlled environment and inviting others to attempt reverse-engineering a cure. But maybe he’s wrong. He’d like to hope that he is. Like to hope that people like her, who’ve already been paddling neck-deep up shit creek, could catch the break they all so sorely needed.

He considers her question for a while, his gaze slowly sliding away, heavy with more than tiredness. "Yeah," He says a little flatly, the joylessness in his eyes holding a different, more complicated answer. "It's great." A beat. "...Think I washed a couple pounds a' dirt off me when I steppin' into that shower the first time."

Then comes a breathless little chuckle despite himself. He rubs at the back of his neck.