[Ugh. He genuinely shudders, unwilling to even consider it. He'll give her the speech someday, about four and all the awful doom it has foretold, but right now even the thought of saying the number out loud is making him feel a little sick. The rest of the bad luck sucks, too, but — truthfully, he knows, just knows that it's all stemming from the ghost's use of that number.]

[Incorporeal little bastard.]

Okay, okay. But if you feel like you need to stop, stop. I'm serious, okay? No martyr bullshit or I'll kick your ass.

What do I gotta do? Should I, like—

[He stands in the middle of the tunnel, arms spread wide, and . . . just waits, looking kind of dumb.]