His reaction abruptly changes. Just like that. There is swift, penetrating anger, radiating outwards until he realises he is broadcasting and reels it back in, where it simmers somewhere under his skin. Reacting like this frightens him, but it is useful, so he keeps it there instead of dismissing it.

He looks back at the river, the colour and gentle current typical for a Givdi afternoon, no hair, no stones. They might have been here half an hour, an hour maybe. "How likely is it this is the first one?" His voice is flat, because he guesses the answer is 'not very'. The man he saw didn't look that young. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.