[Wanda manages a half-shrug at his response, carefully moving the table through the door with Flint, stepping quickly forward to help catch the door before it closes against the table.

It may be poetic, but to her it's merely a sentiment she's familiar with. Loss of the things that birthed and supported her, helped her to grow and flourish.]

If they decide to join me, of course, otherwise I may find myself with leftovers to last me at a week or two. Castaways is perhaps a better way to think of ourselves, however. Do you know if there's a patron saint of castaways, James? Or perhaps one for those who are lost...