Work up to it. Jon rubs the tip of his thumb against the side of Martin's hand as he wracks his brain, trying to think if there's anything easy to talk about. The eighteen months that gape between them are a calendar of disasters and obituaries.

Thorne is almost a safer topic.

He sighs and shifts on the bench, looking out at the yard. "For everything I don't like here - before you ask, no, there isn't running water - at least it's quiet in my head. It's been- I know it started before Prentiss, the Eye..." His free hand goes to his throat, thumb rubbing across the longest of the scars there, the one that opened in that other space. "It changed me. Still was, before I was put in here."