Joan is well-versed in catching the signs of anger rising in older men. Some part of her tenses, preparing for the next stages. Her foot hovers over the break, because she won't be able to see, but she can't stop the car now, or she'll give up her chance to strike back, and end up defending, uselessly cornered before she's been pinned down. She waits, and the cues rise and fall. His anger doesn't extend to her.

She's not sure how she feels about that, either. But it's sharpened her focus, at least; the little rush of adrenaline makes her mind move quicker. She sets aside the philosophical concerns she was childishly chewing at-- could she ever be that angry at someone for hurting her? Luke, sure, but her? If it was family, maybe, but if it wasn't? And who's to say whoever chained Merle up wasn't family? That's the kind of personal stuff you keep between relatives-- and focus more on her driving. She angles the rustbucket around a larger group of loons, probably on their way to herd up with the cluster from earlier.

Whatever the truth of Merle's story is, she decides she doesn't want to know any more. Not now, anyway. It's not that his tales are gruesome. It's that they aren't.

"And now you round up stray orphans out of the kindness of your heart?"