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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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He shrugs, finishes programming the Hawaiian beach in and opens the door for her. He takes off his shoes. "Sunbathing, wading, swimming. What did you do at the beach before all the zombies took over?"

"I lived in Dallas," she reminds him. "There were no beaches. But mostly I teased boys. And girls."

She steps out carefully onto the sand in her boots, looking at it suspiciously.

"Well the AI in here isn't great so there's no point teasing the people in the Enclosure," he says, grimacing. "But everything else works. Take your boots off; feel the sand."

"Yeah that's not going to happen," she answers, firm, still regarding the sand warily.

"But be my guest."

"Is this your first time at the beach?" What's with the skepticism?

He keeps his shoes on, though.

"Since the virus, yes."

Since she's learned there are horrors in soft ground, and anywhere she can't see where her body ends up.

He finds a long stick and offers it to her, demonstrating how she can use it to prod the ground ahead of her. She'll feel anything buried before it can get her.

"We'll stay out of the water," he says, because he loves the beaches around LA but he's a desert wolf primarily. He likes solid ground, likes being able to breathe easy.

She watches him, tolerantly not pointing out that she knows full well how to check the ground for buried walkers. She's still not taking off her shoes.

"It doesn't turn off now. Just -" She shakes her head.

"Do what you want. When was the last time you went to the beach?"

"Last summer. But it was for work, so..." He didn't enjoy it the way he could have. "And the beaches back home are crowded, dirty. Not like this."

"You were lawyering on the beach?" she asks, skeptical.

"Don't tell me you're one of those celebrity lawyers."

He scoffs. Yes, he is one, but. "My husband is some kind of social media celebrity. My job, when I'm not being a lawyer, is being his arm candy when he's showing off."

"He's what now?" she asks.

"Wait - so your working was relaxing on a beach being seen?"

"And doing interviews and posing for pictures. All day, posing for pictures," which was exhausting and irritating.

"Alec does stunts and records them for the internet. He got famous for it."

"So, what, you expect me to believe he's the extrovert and you're the introvert?"

She's being facetious now and doesn't care if he knows it.

"It's so weird thinking of other worlds just going on like nothing happened."

"That's exactly what my job is: to make people believe that," he laughs.

He's quiet then, thinking about how strange this place must be for her. Not just the Barge, but the beach itself, free of zombies.

"In my world, there are werewolves. Lycanthropes. The dead don't rise but we're not all human, either. If we'd had the virus...who knows? Maybe wolves would be running the world." But they'd be ruling over ruins, and that doesn't interest Lark at all.

"Werewolves," she echoes, but resigned. Mostly because she says, "And you're one."

She squints out across the water, folds her arms.

"But you're not running the world. You're here."

"I was an inmate here for a decade. It's easier for me to be here than at home, sometimes," he admits, hating that it's the truth now. "When things at home feel too fragile I always end up coming here for one more deal."

"Seems healthy. People at home don't need you to fix their lives?"

But she's processing what he said, about being here so long he can't function outside of it, trying to work out what she wants to say about it if anything. That part is easier.

"There are books full of jokes about how lawyers don't help fix things," he reminds her with a wry smile. He doesn't necessarily agree with them but, well, what he does isn't quite the same thing as saving lives. "But no, I've saved my people. My pack. That's what I originally wanted."

"Lawyers don't. But husbands do."

She doesn't know anything else about his life, doesn't know what fanily he has, but he brought up a husband.

Then the corner of her mouth twists with uncharacteristic bitterness.

"Well. Unless you're hiding here from him, too."

"God, no." He misses Alec terribly, which is why he goes home once a week. "Besides, if I tried, he knows where to find me. Have you ever been married?"

"Oh, well in that case," she replies, not at all forgiving.

When she answers, "No," a handful of broken glass falls so gently into the sand behind her that it barely makes any sound.

Ooh. That's heavy. He looks at the broken glass and at her, waiting for her to address it, but she probably won't.

"Well it's about trust. How often have you trusted anyone before now?"

She is absolutely not going to address it, and she in fact ignores that it ever happened.

"Oh well spotted: I have trust issues," she answers, the only warning he gets before she drops her arms.

It won't be long before razor wire starts coiling into existence to one side, strand after strand layering up as she speaks.

"Everyone likes to jump on that the second they think they can like I don't know that about myself, like I don't have a reason for it or like I'm not making a conscious choice. Most people don't deserve to be trusted. People I'll have a conversation with in a hallway don't necessarily deserve to come into my house or learn my name, let alone anything else. Trust is earned, not once, but over and over and over again because at any point most people will only too happily use that, too, to get something they need when it's them or you, so don't stand there and act like it's as simple as how often anyone has trusted anyone else before now."

"I get that." The razor wire and all the rest.

"The thing is, you can hijack the system. You can tell who wants something good based on how quickly they give something good." A stew instead of something held back for things they want. "You can read what people want based on how fast they give you what you want."