He really had not meant to do that. He didn't want to do that. He wanted to leave it all behind and never kill again, if he could help it. The Smithsonian had said he was a sniper in WWII, meaning he'd killed. But he liked to think he'd done it as a purpose a way of saving others' lives. But he didn't know.

He puts the knife away, flexing his metal hand. "Sorry." He whispers, again. He knows she understands some. He knows that she would, of anyone. But he still feels the need to say it.

"I should get going." He doesn't meet her eyes. He needs to get moving for the night and see what he can find.