He doesn’t remember. He remembers her face vaguely, but he remembers it the way he remembers a face he’d drawn a hundred times- his hands could sketch her in a moment, but his mind isn’t sure she’s real until Torrie speaks. He takes the soup, and sips slowly. It tastes like the soup his dad would zap in the motels for him, half warmed and mostly bitter. He wants to vomit, but he’s also aware of just how sunken his stomach his gotten, and hell- it’s better food than anything else he’s going to get.
“Thank you. You could have let me die, you didn’t,” Alejo said after wiping his chin, watching her still. “Can I know your name?” he asks. He doesn’t want to assume that she’ll just tell him, or want to tell him. A name holds power, and while she knows his, maybe her’s is worth more. After all, they’re in a gypsy camp made of the bowels of a dead civilization; he can’t imagine she’s soft and ready to share.