Blackfoot Forest come be the new string on my broken guitar

Evien's small brown face in the dark with small shapes cut out by moonlight pulls him halfway out of his neuroticism and then fullway. Things are clearer now. The air which had been heavy and wet and almost too solid to breathe is now thinning out and cooling down and the moribund synapses in his skull, they spark and begin a conversation with the millions of others.
He pulls down his sleeves. Smooths out his shirt the best he can. It's ok, he says, and his voice feels like his own. The grey woman has one foot out the door and she has snagged her coat from the rack on her way out and worried herself into her shoes. He thinks let her leave. We were nearly done anyway.
Half of a dead fox juts out of the dirt. He thinks good enough, he nods thank you to the stranger with yellow eyes, and walks over to Evien, bumping his shoulder, saying let's go home.