"I don't..." He admits it. If he were on his own he'd probably be a human-colored smear on the ground by now. Or a bunch of rat-gnawed bones. The imagery turns his stomach. Would the rats have found him at home if he hadn't come?

"I thought we couldn't be found if we acted like nothing was going on. How did we get found out anyway?" There's still so much about this situation he doesn't understand. He's resigned to it, now, wringing the edge of his shirt in his hands, but with no answers all he can do is keep asking questions (which are probably stupid) to keep from focusing on how gut-terrified he is.