She's right; the house is quiet. Quiet enough to hear the breath, still stubbornly coming in and out of his lungs. Enough to hear the timbers settle, sturdy bones beneath the new skin Carrie's stitching together over its face. To hear the insects (or frogs or what-the-fuck-ever lives in these woods) through the screen of the open window.
Not loud enough to drown out the scream in his head, or the sounds of paper being torn and crumpled in the room up the hall.
He crawls out of his burrow in the space between the bed and the wall, almost to the door before his body remembers that he can stand straight again, move free and fucking graceful, walk through this world like he owns it. (Because he could, if he wanted to. If he were willing to go to war just to claim this questionable mole in the armpit of Pennsylvania as his own.)
By the time he gets to the room where she's rustling around, he's already tired, slumping against the doorframe instead of filling it. His arms are shaking again, as though he's just hauled a heavy load down the darkened hallway.
She's so intent on stripping the wall - popping out pushpins and thumbtacks, shredding maps scrawled dark with dead ends - that she hasn't heard him coming and starts a little when he speaks.
"Never pegged you as the type to scrapbook."
"Every girl needs a hobby." She smiles tight and sad as she wads the page in her hands into a neat ball, and he knows that she's going to hug him again when she comes back in range. He wants to say something cutting about that. Something that will remind them both that he is Job. That Job is the one who who hauls her ass - and his, he thinks, the rattle and clank of cell doors echoing dimly in his head - out of the trap, and not the other way around.
Instead, he finds her head on his shoulder, and his throat feeling rusty and unused around his words. "What now?"