The speed at which the man takes to the pen and notebook tells Wrench he wasn't wrong for asking. Maybe wrong, instead, for being so insistent about a method that involves so much touch. The words on the page are only half the equation, though, but they're as welcome as the air he's breathing. Wrench shuffles back to his knees and scoots to Arthur's side so he isn't reading upside down. There's not much of a pause between when the words stop appearing on the page and when Wrench is ready to respond, and in the interim he taps his thumb on the other man's kneecap as if to prove the method is working.

It's the last statement, though, that's surprising enough to make Wrench give himself away. He reads that fact and breathes out something surprised, tinged with a very gentle, almost half-formed utterance: "Shit." The voice is barely a whisper, but its tenor is nasally and higher than one might expect from a man of Wrench's stature. It makes him sound at least a decade younger than he has any right to.

His response is in all capital letters, drawn out slowly but with a confident and fluid motion. In between each word Wrench spares a half-second to lay his palm flat against Arthur's, just so the man doesn't have to guess where one word ends and the next begins.

Name is Wrench. Like the tool. From Minnesota. Always Deaf. Born lucky I guess.