Harlow's Cheshire cat grin widened as Mort talked, noticing the accent to his words. Southern boy. Southern boy with a sweet hat. Harlow loved to collect friends of different flavors, and he felt like Mort would fit nicely on the same shelf as his other new Southern friend. "Something real sweet about a boy with blood splatter on his face," Harlow said playfully, taking note of the state of Mort's clothes and skin. He wondered what brought the other boy to wander the streets at night, beating in zombie's skulls with a baseball bat. Whatever it was, Harlow liked it.
"Don't got a gun," Harlow said, shrugging vaguely. He carried only a pair of brass knuckles and a knife concealed in his boot. Speed and agility were his best defense, and when the geeks came at him he was more likely to scale a building to escape their reach than fight back. "I punch 'em and run. Never shot a gun once in my life." He wouldn't even know where to start when it came to loading or firing a gun. Harlow finally decided it was safe to climb down from his perch, kicking down the ladder of the fire escape and letting it clatter towards the sidewalk. He swung himself onto it and started to descend, though he watched Mort carefully as he did, just in case he was wrong about the stranger.