They're all struggling with that, he thinks. If only because whatever magic tracks them throws a heavy noose around what plots and plans anyone here might've come up with. And too many of them are attached. Too many have people they won't leave behind. He counts himself amongst that group—a decision he's well aware is far from practical, but one he also knows he won't budge on.

"Last chances are usually the ones to take."

He gets up; the only sign he still nurses an old injury is that he leans his weight on the tree as he does. It's occurred to him, the entire time they were in the Horizon, that the wound hadn't healed at all. It'd stagnated. As if nothing about their bodies progressed. The concept is...

Not ideal.

"Try not to die either way," he says, already beginning to move off. "I think your friends would prefer your rescue over mine."