"Yeah, well, it would in Purgatory." Bear, ghost, whatever: all this is hitting a little too close to home. She call all too easily imagine that these are the woods outside the badlands, and that she's stomping through the snow with Dolls, not March, on the trail of some new rev shitbag.

But if she were home, she wouldn't have these fucking strings threading out and around her, a web of light tying her down. Tethering her. It's enough to make her want to head for the hills, until they all fade away, no matter how much those faded and frayed strings make her itch, tug at her thoughts.

Not that she needs the string connecting her to Holland for her to know he's freaked the hell out. Tracking down malicious, ghostly bears is pretty far from his usual beat, and he's just talking to be talking, because that's how he deals with this shit when he can't just get drunk.

Which doesn't mean she loves the topic he picked. Wynonna looks over at him, then back at the path they're trudging along. "Yeah, a bunch."

(And she's sure he doesn't need the string to know how she feels about that: unsettled, wary, disbelieving.)

"Gold, that one white one we've all got--" the only one she can see on everyone else, anyway, which is good. She slides another glance at him. "A couple black."

Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask. "...You have any red ones?"