Caelan knew enough of the Cajun language to know Dusty’s words were unkind. He knew withholding his name was rude, but they were strangers in an even stranger time. He had never seen this man before and highly doubted they would cross paths in the future. What importance was it that Dusty knew his name? Beyond pleasantries and societal standards, which no longer stood, there was no sense.<br/><br/>They secured his bike into the back of the truck. Caelan walked to the passenger seat, just in time to watch Dusty tuck a gun away. Who had he planned to unload that thing on? He stared through the glass at the stranger until he was granted access. Caelan didn’t own a gun. He owned a couple Swiss army knives and a spring loaded pocket knife. The pocket knife was tucked in the inside of his boot and the blades of the army knives were too dull to do more than stab someone with. Caelan didn't know where they were, anyway.<br/><br/>He pulled his seatbelt over his chest and gestured to the expanse of road before them with a swing of his arm. “Might as well go to the scrapyard.” Caelan licked his lips and all but glared at the man beside him. He pulled his bike helmet onto his lap and settled in for the ride. Dusty had been all but passionate about the treasures that existed at the scrapyard. “Hopefully you know what you're talking about.”<br/><br/>The least Dusty could do was bring his promises to fruition.