"A missionary?" Andrew stares in shock and a mild sense of horror. "Sorry, you think I would make a good missionary."

"Well, uh, sure, Luce," says Mark, with an accidental sort of awkwardness. "I mean, you believe in the Village quite a bit and you really want to go outside, so-"

"Look around, Mark. Why would I wish this on anyone? What should our slogan be, 'Come to the Village! You can't leave and everyone will call you 'Luce' all the damn time!" Andrew sinks to the loamy soil, pushing his hands against the soft grayish-blue of a mossy rock.

"I... I thought you liked that nickname." Mark is shell-shocked, quiet, hurt. "I thought you liked it here!" He's yelling now and trying to send the hurt outward, trying to make it less his. "What, so what if the squirrels are purple! So what if nobody leaves! Nobody wants to!" He keeps walking, lets Andrew crouch with his hands clenched in silver-pink moss. He walks away before the words tugging at his throat- the ones whispering "I pulled you out of hell, I sacrificed everything so you could live here-" can escape. He's hurt, but there's no-one he wants to hurt that much.

Andrew sits in the dirt, and wants to cry but doesn't. Andrew practices his name, trying to roll it off his tongue like a coin trick. Andrew tries very hard not to think about the name Lucy, and fails miserably.

Andrew tries not to care.