"See, that reaction right there is how I know you don't fully grasp the scale of the problem," he said, looking at me like I had unknowingly sided with the movie.
I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile.
"It's not just wrong," he continued, resuming our pace. "It's scientifically ridiculous. A pyroclastic flow moves as a dense, ground-hugging cloud of superheated gas, ash, and rock fragments at speeds that can exceed a hundred kilometers per hour, sometimes far more. It also carries temperatures that can reach several hundred degrees Celsius.
...You don't outrun that. Your muscles don't even get a meaningful chance to respond before the heat and pressure catch up. There's no sprinting away, no clever angle, no second attempt. You're already within it before your brain finishes the thought."
I smiled softly at his enthusiasm.
"And of course," he added, warming up now, "he has a jeep. A very committed jeep that is apparently faster than physics, logic, and basic survival."
I glanced at him again, smiling.
"I don't understand why movies do this," he went on. "Just once, I'd like realism. The volcano erupts, everyone looks at each other, and someone says, 'Well. We had a good run,' and the movie ends."
Another quiet laugh escaped me.
"And it's never just the volcano," he continued. "It's everything. The injuries, the timing, the dramatic speeches while things are exploding. No one is ever out of breath. No one forgets what they were saying. Meanwhile, I go grocery shopping and forget the one thing I went in for."
I huffed a laugh.
"Seriously, I forget things so quickly it's almost impressive," he said. "Like I'm speed-running confusion. But no, this man this man is outrunning a collapsing mountain and still thinking clearly."
I shook my head.
"I take this very personally," he said. "For professional reasons, obviously."
We then reached a beautiful view, a quiet lake stretched out below us, framed by tall trees that caught the light and reflected softly on the water.
"This," he said, straightening, "is where I say something life-changing and poetic. Something you'll remember forever."
I looked at him. He paused. Two seconds. "I have absolutely nothing, but it is a good view."
I huffed and nodded.
We kept walking, the path settling back into its quiet rhythm around us, the sound of our steps soft against the ground.
Then I stopped.
He noticed immediately and slowed too, turning toward me with that easy half-smile of his.
"Okay," he said gently, a hint of amusement in his voice as he lifted his hands slightly, "I understand, I will stop talking, I'm sorry, I got carried away."
He shifted like he was about to keep walking again, but before he could, I reached out and touched his hand. He froze a little, surprised.
"No," I said softly, then exhaled, finding the rest of it with more effort than I expected. "Talk..is... calming."
There were other things I wanted to add, words that didn't quite form properly, so I let them go instead of forcing them into shape. He smiled, not his usual teasing one, but something softer.
"Your voice," he said, pausing briefly, "has a kind of beauty that stays in the air after you've stopped talking." Then he looked at me and said, "Thank you."
After a small pause, he asked, a little more gently, "So... what do you like doing in your free time?"
I took out my pad and wrote,Walking. Writing. Reading. All boring stuff.
"Boring?" he repeated, scandalized. "How dare you? That's not boring. That's elite introvert excellence. That's main character recovery arc behaviour."
A small smile tugged at my lips. I looked up at him, then wrote again,And you? What do you do to treat yourself?
