Unlike Diana, Howard lived with Drake/Brittney in the basement. He's used to tuning things out. Diana's songs barely leave a imprint on his memory as he drifts off. That doesn't mean he isn't alert. Even in sleep, there are certain noises that will rouse him instantly: doors opening, footsteps, glass breaking, wood rending. The scraping, clumping sound of Orc walking around.

It takes him about twenty minutes of listening to Diana sing to convince himself she's not going to ditch him here and take the car, but in a strange twist, he sleeps better now than he has in months. Possibly his body knows that it needs rest now, because there won't be any later. He's not going to waste a chance at recharging on petty nightmares and insomnia.

He sleeps and it's deep and dark and warm and silent, like the lights went down on all that bubbling paranoia and neurosis he totes around in his head. He wakes up and he's getting a migraine from the dehydration. The edges of his vision are blurry and vibrating. Not that he'd let Diana see that he's hurting.

"I'm up," he whispers, not needing Diana to rouse him. It's still dark but there's just a peek of light starting up outside, enough that even without the flashlight they can see silhouettes against the background. He curls his hand over the handle of his pocketknife in his jacket. "You ready to find water? We're not going to make it much further otherwise."

Maybe they would have back home, in humid SoCal. But they've been running, and there's no food to get moisture from, and it's arid climate.

"How's the arm?"