He’s braced to find a raw, ugly wound. The same one he remembers from when Bossie carried what was left of Turner back to them. Ugly and deep, sewed up with their meager supplies. But it’s scarred over now, no longer weeping.

Almost like the teeth marks on his own thigh, and the utter lack of scar or wound over his heart.

Carver presses his fingers very gently against the scar. He breathes out. “I didn’t leave. I just woke up here one day,” he explains softly. “We’re not in Meridian. Fuck, kid, we’re not even on Earth anymore.”