Brock grunts, moving his arm from around her to wrap it around the back of the sofa instead, hooking his ankle over his knee. "Yeah. Hell if I know."

He pauses to drag off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a thin stream as he looks at the ceiling.

"I dunno. I miss actually doing important shit. There's never anything important here, though. Sometimes I play carpenter or mechanic but it's... not, uh. The same. Right? Like forced retirement," he says, then scoffs. "I always figured I'd die in the field or something. Not fuck around with a little homestead."