The fifth Sinner was always quiet. Maybe, a little too much for his own good. Meursault was a man of very few words, only responding when asked or ordered to. You didn't know how he did that, but you wouldn't pry.

Now, you're both on the bus, sitting next to each other. Don Quixote was, well of course, saying her chivalrous things as she usually did. Heathcliff on the verge of punching Ishmael in the face and Vergilius's disappointment unmeasurable. Not like you cared.

You were about to fall asleep until you felt a large hand on your shoulder.

"We're about to arrive at our destination." It was Meursault.