He tries to understand where Charlie came from, why he hasn't heard him behind him, how he could appear so quickly that he nearly knocks him over into the table. He could have sworn he was alone as he ran, could have sworn he was alone in the warehouse, except for the bodies and his captors, whose faces he somehow couldn't picture now. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe he's safe here. That doesn't mean he doesn't look around himself nervously, as though assuring himself that Charlie is the only one here, Charlie, the one person who'd never hurt him.

"Charlie," he replies, somewhat inanely, heart still hammering in his chest, blood still pumping through his veins so loudly he can practically hear it. His wrists and knees still hurt, a deeper ache than he'd have expected for the relatively short amount of time he'd spent on the floor. He wants to ask Charlie where he came from, but the words just won't come out.