Hoshor Plains I Wear My Sins On My Sleeves

Donovan speaks in ominous and vague portents that would've been threatening coming from anyone else, though from him they were a simple inevitability. A fundmental fact of life, just as reliable as gravity, the drop of a guillotine. 

"No, not at all." He murmurs, and they walk on in silence for a while towards an unseen but audible river. On instict, Colin swallows. The brief constriction of muscle is almost painful; he hadn't realised how thirsty he was. "Do you drink, Don?" Back at Word of Life, in the last days he worked there, Colin had more or less lived in a dull haze. Reality right now is sharp and grating, but he clings to it. He isn't sure what he would've done if he hadn't met Donovan. He'd always had a neurotic streak-- the tendency to unravel. To alienate himself. To entropy.

The river comes into view as they crest a low hill. The promise of fresh water could've brought him to tears.