Lennon finessed the matches from Felix's pocket when asked, not even thinking about how much he'd love that opportunity on a normal day. Everything felt heightened and surreal and wrong... it just felt bad even though he knew they were doing what they could with the few tools they had. He held the matchbook in his hand, glancing over at Edwin when he spoke again. "There's not a fuckin' railroad trestle at least," he shot back, but his voice hitched a little.
There was a person dead here, and to him it hit harder than Simms had, maybe because of all the horrible things that guy had done. Lennon hadn't had to see him or be involved with it. This was a decent guy as far as he knew, and he was dead, and it could have been any of them. Could still be. Maybe that you were all chosen for a purpose thing was just more bullshit.
He pulled in a breath and took out a match, folding the matchbook the same way he had when he and Tobias had been smoking a joint the other day. He struck it, its ignition making a faint sputtering sound, then leaned over enough to drop it on some smaller branches that were close to the body. Straightening back up, he crossed himself, an instinctive move he'd picked up from his non-practicing Catholic family.