She follows him slowly, eventually stopping the car near the point in the line of trees where he went off road. She can't stop him from whatever masculine ritual he feels like he's completing, and she'd rather not even if she could. This is his gross bullshit, his stupid baggage. If he gets himself killed, it's one less mouth to feed.

And then, you know, it won't be her. Sometimes she wonders if it'll be her. He's the kind of person she'd end up killing, if patterns repeat themselves.

Whatever. She climbs out the jeep's sun roof, sitting on the top with her rifle in her lap, and she waits. He'll come back or he won't. She'll give him an hour.