Oh, she had far too much confidence in him.

Two fists, too much brain, and not a single weepy, unwed missus getting... what? The line of Malachi's mouth cracked into a smile, and his amusement only grew upon having his arm slapped. Whoever Claude was, whoever Noah and James were -- he felt for them, truly, and their alcoholic mother...

...but God if he wouldn't have traded his own mother for her, in that moment. She might bumble around, break into things, stain herself with booze and piss, but at least she was kind. She didn't seem like the type to push her armoire down on top of her child, or to toss them from the second-story window. No, this woman at least seemed like she cared.

"Fine," he agreed. "You're right."

Malachi set to looking, then, casting a glance from one side of their path to the next. Not too many sticks around, but he grabbed what he saw. Snapped the first two right in half when he tested them, but the third was sturdy, less of a twig than a real stick.

"Here," he returned to her side and pushed it into her hand.

"Will that do?"