He listens—he's not the type that can mimic birdsong, pluck a tune out of the air, but he takes in the sound. Wonders what the dogs must've made of it. Then Rust's mouth twitches, ever-so-slight. He shifts from foot to foot, striking a precarious balance, and with obvious effort lifts up the chipped and mud-splattered bone he's been leaning on. Turns it so the carved letters are—briefly—on display.

“Came quick,” he says, voice rough with exertion. "You have a word for yourself?"