Martin rather likes Marcus; there's something very familiar about the boy, his evident nervousness, his perpetual tension. Martin imagines himself at that age, imagines he'd behave in much the same way, bowed under the weight of that quiet, constant stress. It's hard not to feel protective of him. It's strange, realizing he's the grownup here, that children automatically assume him to be a bit more pulled together. Martin knows better, that he's a barely contained amalgamation of doubts and fears, that he is nothing like Evelyn and Lee, or Greta for that matter. He doubts Regan has any illusions about his relative aptitude for survival in this place; hopes, really. Better to be seen for what he is.

But it's nice, too, to help Marcus even if it's by the placebo effect. Martin isn't a parent, but he's still an adult, and there's a tiny adjustment in the boy's posture when he sits down, like he's relaxing by the smallest degrees.

When Regan offers him something more concrete to do than be a vaguely reassuring presence, Martin is glad for it. He rather likes folding laundry, finds it soothing. Marcus, by contrast, heaves a noiseless sighs, like a reluctant shrug, when presented with the chore. Martin gives him a friendly nudge and gets to work, encouraging him to do the same.