He doesn't blink and he doesn't miss it — and, punctuated by the tug on the bandage, it doesn't help. Hap wets his lips because clearing his throat would diminish the relative silence. He wraps his hand around the knife's handle, warm from her grip. Smooth and weighty, how it must feel to be held in the coil of a snake.

He looks from it to her, not asking for her permission, but confirming he will proceed. Then, with great care, he sets the blade against her skin. His knives are cold and featherlight. The hunting knife's bulk is a stranger to him, but the strength and depth of flesh are his oldest friends. Mindfully, he applies the slightest pressure to create an incision that mirrors the one she drew on him. Unlocked, their shackles clatter to the floor.

Hap offers her the knife back, and with his bare hand, dams the trail of blood speeding down her wrist.