Slowly, laboriously, Fletch helped her back to the pile of ashes that marked their camp. He leaned her back against the tree where he'd yelled at her, then, head hung and rubbing his stubbled chin, he found his own spot a few steps away. He plopped down and let loose another sigh. He regarded her as he scratched at his jaw. "Yeah. See. I appreciate the whole, 'save yourself, I'm doomed' angle. Really, I do. But, fact is, if your boss is as sharp as you say, then he's already made that association. His boys followed the two of us. Hell, they beat me right next to you. I've been associating with you in broad daylight for the better part of a day. So it's a bit late for that, innit? Cat's out of the bag, now."
He scowled as he remembered one particular cat. Then he fixed his amber gaze on her sad, blotchy, tear-stained face.
"Look," he said. "I want to live. I'm going to live. You don't have to like me. I don't have to like you. But we've done well to stick together through this. And I don't think you should lay down and give up just yet. Not while there's still a snowball's chance we can make it out."