There's a bit of a shrug from the burrito. "Distances are hard to gauge when everything's flat, there's a good thirty miles plus between us and there by my guess." And on foot, a day or so of walking, maybe a bit more thanks to all the sand making travel harder. Half that time with a tomas or even less time flying. Flying didn't happen often, but thirty miles through the sand on foot was an all-day venture.

And then he waits, bouncing just a little in place, keenly interested on an external perspective.

"I've never seen a city like that outside pictures. But that's supposed to be July. A July." Even through the tumult of emotions the ruins brought to the fore, this is so unexpected that he could put it all aside and feel nothing but maddening curiosity. "It was a hole when I arrived last night. Does it look like the one you knew, with the fruit trees?"