“You’re welcome,” Quentin says, voice a little quieter, a little more distant than it was a few minutes ago or how curious he seemed in the woods. He shrugs and stuffs his hands in to his pockets again and looks off towards the forest.

It’s still dark, impenetrable and really fucking creepy.

“You could write your name on your things? That way, everyone would know they were yours. Just. Maybe you’d want to do that.”