He was nearly toward the city. Dust and ruin littered the floors and it was a wonder how he had managed to live so long, draped in Faber's clothes.

Adapting. All in all, Faber, in the end, had a preference but still knew how to adapt.

For that, he would applause the man, had it not been for the sudden silence of the cold atmosphere. Hands stuffed into his pockets once again, shifting on the balls of his feet. Montag admired him. He admired a lot. Granger, Faber, hell, even Clarisse alike. The “little duck” of the group had a lot to learn, it seems, and he barely, if not beginner, knew the expertise of being an "intellectual."

Montag's tongue teased at the back of his mouth, tracing the lines of his teeth as he nodded along. This was a moment he hated being silent.

A snap.

He perked up.

Montag's head turned, swiftly, looking into the deep brushel of trees. His eyes caught sight of a figure, one he didn't realize was so far out; you.