Wren's walking and smoking when he hears the shout, and the squeal of tires. Any sort of disruption in this town is noticable -- usually they're either much more noticable or much less so, than that -- but it's not the yell that catches his attention. Wren's still, after a year here, getting used to not hearing noise at all hours of the night.

It's what's being said. That's a reaction he knows, intrinsically. It doesn't pull pity from him but community, even after these many years.

The kid walking up the street defensively from where a car has apparently been has platinum-bleached hair and piercings and a distinct look of otherness: he knows that too.

"Hey. You okay?" he asks, shooting a watchful look down the street.