Grey didn't need a knife to defend himself; Curtis knew that. So, slowly, he leaned forward, face creased with the effort, to slide it into the makeshift sheath on his rope-belt (as long as no one took it from him, that would be all right). He fell back with a hiss. He held the hand out, trying to flex it again; it hurt. A lot.

But he looked over at Curtis, too, then, how clean he was, indeed. He wanted to understand. That was all; he wanted to understand. He wasn't sure he could. He nudged up a sleeve. Die!. His brows were knit. Was this whatever came after dying?