Wrench does as instructed, thinking not for the first time since his arrival how strange it is for someone to simply open their front door and gesture him in. There are parts of this situation that make him wonder what might mimic the mundane, normal kind of life he might have found himself living had fate not intervened so early.

He takes the chair and glances at her scars. Wrench doesn't stare, but he doesn't try to hide the fact that he's seen them either. He simply lets his gaze pass over them with a cursory sort of interest, like he's making an inventory of her. Then he responds. W-R-E-N-C-H. No sign name for him either, nor does he supplement with the sign for the tool that might be his namesake.

Some were, yes, but not all. Some have always lived here. They act like you have too. Your husband, your house. They'll treat you like it's always been this way.