His fingers drum the length of the pipe with mounting impatience. He itches for the reassuring hum of an opened laptop, mechanical labor at which he always excelled. The physicality of the present situation will soon become untenable for a great deal of reasons.

He presses one hand against the soreness creeping to the back of his neck, the strain of his vigilance and his limited knowledge and his anxiety building to a point where he simply cannot remain still for an extended amount of time, he cannot stay here and he cannot wait for Melanie to return when there is every chance he may have inadvertently sent a child to her death.

Rush exhales shortly in mild relief when her recognizably petite form exits the building.

"Fuck," he mutters, closing his eyes briefly against the nauseating thick sweetness of decay in the air. "So we're to be left to the mercy of the weather, then."

He opens his eyes, eyes raking the building exterior, and he nods, his tone dry.

"That's perfect."