He shuffles over a little, giving her a bit more space. A jolt of pain rang through his lower body like an old church bell, reverberating through torn muscles and rattling his bones, trying to get him to stay still.

This is the kind of conversation he would have liked on their deathbeds. Not when he's listening to explosives going off up above, glass shattering, pipes bending, steel snapping and concrete breaking up into murderous rubble coming after them.

"We're calling him Francis now?" Matt mutters. He knows she likes to use the whole names they were given - she never called him Matt or Matty - but he might actually be sulking.

"He doesn't know how this works. Either that or he was stomping on purpose." Him and his dumb dog.