Rust's outside when it happens, where the jungle starts to reassert itself, get dense—sunlight strangled by the canopy. He says fuck once, turns back to the building with his shoulders squared. Then he burns through a cigarette with single-minded intensity, staring into the wilderness. Thinking about the body out there, caved-in face and scattered skull fragments. Imagining the creature on the other end of the walkie stringing it up, a warning.

Other possibilities. What you'd do with an animal.

He talks into the walkie, at all of them.

Then he checks for water and heads back to the windowless building, the girl inside. His eyes take a moment to adjust; he scans the cell doors, automatic. “Thirsty?” he asks, the wrinkled plastic bag in his hands. He doesn't quite meet her eyes, but that's not so unusual for him. Perpetually on edge around her, as if uneasy to find himself occupying the same space.