On the whole, Wrench tends to consider himself relatively observant. He knows, of course, that judgment on that might change depending on what information the respondent most values. For his part, he's always been more focused on the way people carry themselves than what they have to say. There's a certain leveling that's happened to them all upon their arrival. They've each been given homes that seem stocked with relatively similar possessions. They've been granted a closet full of clothes seemingly tailored to them. As far as he can tell, their access to the town seems to begin and end at the same points. But some of them — like Wrench himself — look like they're trying to stuff themselves somewhere they don't belong, while others seem already accustomed to this pace of life.

He puts the stranger in the latter category.

Maybe Wrench has made these mistakes before. Perhaps he's judged a few of the locals as newcomers. Maybe he's even assumed another one of the strange arrivals always belonged to this place, though if he has he doesn't know it. But something about the man's simple demand and the way he's given it makes Wrench think this stranger is a long-time inhabitant of Sweetwater. And inexplicably, that presumption makes him more inclined rather than less to comply.

He offers a nod and jerks his thumb needlessly toward a commuter lot. Wrench is thoughtful enough not to offer the notebook back while the man's got the cane to contend with. He'll clarify where to once they're seated again.