He doesn't hear the name, so wrapped up is he in grabbing shit they need back where he's from. Knives, utensils. Cooking oil, bleach, liquor. So many every day things you don't even realize you need until you don't have it anymore, and you're stuck with the grime and grit of what's left over for you at the end of the world.

So no, he doesn't hear the name, but suddenly there are hands on him. He tenses, fists clenched like he's ready to spring, and it's only the sight of her hair that keeps him from lashing out. It's Ellen. Of course it is, the only one that would bother to hug him or hit him in a time like this, the only one that bothers to do that where he's from, too.

And she doesn't know.

Fine. Good. It's better that way, he can keep it brief, keep it short, keep her in the dark long enough to get away and get back on mission. So he stands stock still through the hug, hands clenched into fists, lips pressed together until she's done.

Doesn't say a word, doesn't know what in the hell to tell her to keep her from figuring it all out in a heartbeat.