He speaks like a man who is used to the uncertainty of things; to hope for the right piece of the puzzle to fall into place after committing to a series of facets of believing, though prayer need not be involved. Like a constant stream of possibilities, almost.

Lantern and attention turned towards her, Wanda raises an eyebrow, and that much is the expression that will greet Wake: a kind of unamused sense of the world, pledged in by something raw and under the surface—of understanding that goes beyond words.

"I don't live in the settlement anymore." Meaning that he would be right. Wanda raises her hand, takes a step towards him, and fixes a seam of his coat that's gotten caught under the strap of the waterskin. She smooths her fingers for a second longer over the section of cloth, and her magic imbues itself onto him. "It won't keep your skin or head dry, but this much should keep your clothes dry instead."

Magic, that is.

She takes that exact step back, her hand returning to its rightful spot over her crossed arms.

"I'd like to hear about the stories you write some other time, Alan Wake."