There's no reason to think the guy's lying. And Tim has no reason to believe he is; black- for a sorry second, where Tim realizes he cannot ID the stupid handgun anyway. Then he takes hold of the tarp with a shaky hand but a strong hold. Seems like that's where all of his energy is channeled into at the moment, and Tim's the color of hunter's green.

Appropriate.

Does he look like he's ever tried to take down a moose, he doesn't say. He'd rarely ever even have to hunt down a parking space-- wealth comes with perks. But Tim's just glad he doesn't have to scramble to keep pace. Other guy is short, too.

"I'm not a hunter," he says with the patience of someone explaining the obvious.

Transport, he thinks with a frown, will be the worst of it.

"But I can trap. And other people have learned how to hunt."

Well, no, he corrects himself. Transport of hundreds of pounds of meat will be a logistical nightmare. But the worst will be the sound of crying after broken legs, broken necks, broken backs- will the animals have calves yet? Might as well start planning veal dinners. (Black's a good tell for death, even if it makes Tim remember the Lanterns and that makes him a nauseating white-yellow-blue. Like an ugly bruise.)

(And if someone is worried about the aesthetics of bruising, shit must be okay.)

"And you... are a hunter. Your kills are always clean. There's only a few others who know what the hell they're doing. We're going to need that."