He shoots a taut look out the window, at the too-stretched-out fucking trees, and half-expects to glimpse something tall and thin and drifting and limbless lurking between the trunks.

He doesn't.

"I guess." Tim shrugs fluidly, makes a poor attempt at eye contact that leaves him scowling at the floor. "If you like woods." The dour tone is about all Tim's willing to put forth in terms of his own general opinion on woods, trees, and all things related.