Why he likes it out here, Chuck has never quite been able to figure out. It's the quiet, maybe, or the sense of resignation, the reminder of where he came from and how he got here. As often as not, being in a place like this makes him feel like he's just supposed to move on, to forget about it, and for him, that isn't in the cards. He'd rather think about it than push it away. Besides, at this hour and this time of year, unusually warm though the weather might have been lately, the beach is all but deserted, a welcome change of pace from packed sidewalks and people who will never, never understand.

This morning, he's got Max with him, walking along the sand, and it's Max who spots her first, barking and tugging at his leash. Chuck is about to crouch and ask what it is, an instinct despite the fact that Max would have no way of answering, when he catches the sound of laughter from a fairly short distance away, following it until he spots her in the sand.

Something in his stomach turns. He'd washed up on the beach those few years that seem like a lifetime ago, but he'd still been wearing his drivesuit, as if the bomb hadn't detonated at all. And while he's never really given a shit about other people and their usually irrelevant problems, the plastic tarp makes him doubt that her presence is the result of a fun night out on the beach with a date. He can't just leave her for someone else to find. He isn't that cruel.

"Max, stay here," he says, leading the dog over just far enough that he can tie the leash to a post of the boardwalk. Max barks again in clear disapproval, but Chuck has already started off towards the girl laughing in the sand, soaking wet and nearly naked. He keeps a slight distance, averts his gaze so he's not inadvertently staring at her exposed chest, but not so quickly that he doesn't see the red streaked on her skin. Jesus fucking Christ.

"Hey," he says, "hey, are you alright? Are you hurt?"