It's no surprise his partner's keen eye zeroes in on that point of difference. Wrench can't very well disguise his hand and answer a question. He makes a show of trying to fight the other man off, but the weak effort is mostly posturing. There's no doubt in his mind he could overpower the other man by brute force if he really wanted to, but eventually he breaks down and lets Numbers examine the through-and-through scar made by the arrow that struck him. Wrench wiggles his fingers as if to prove, inexplicably, that he can and that it doesn't even seem to cause him pain, but he can tell that's the last of Numbers' worries.

He'd like to think he could do the same for the other man just as easily, even after all this time. That if they weren't both covered from head to toe in these ridiculous vintage getups, that he could map each and every last one of his partner's tattoos. Maybe he wants to see something different in the man standing before him, because that would at least prove that Malvo had lied. That the man had sat there at his bedside and told stories about what happened in that blizzard. Though what would be worse? Would it hurt more to think that Numbers really had died, or that he'd somehow managed to live and Wrench had gone off and abandoned him?

I can't explain, he starts, holding his hands up empty. Of course, he tries anyway. He has to. But Wrench's green eyes are narrow with near-panic as he goes on. It hasn't been weeks. It's been years. M-A-L-V-O? He came to me in the hospital. He told me he killed you. He killed everybody. That was ten years ago...