It's the kind of thing Elena would have done, he notes in a daze. She always seemed to have one eye on him, ready to catch him if he tripped or staggered, and he feels a dull ache of regret at the idea that he might not see her again. She'd been wearing her wedding ring, that's the thing that's going to stick with him. She could talk all she liked about how it helped in that part of the world, he wasn't fooled. It makes it all the worse that he's convinced he's lost his own ring.

He goes with her gratefully, following her over to the bench and letting his exhausted legs rest. He hadn't realised how useless his limbs were becoming until he stopped moving. "Drake," he tells her when she introduces herself, realising that he hasn't yet. "Nathan Drake. I was in the desert," he says stupidly, feeling like he needs to explain for some reason. He's not normally this dependent, this ridiculous, and he feels like she should know.

He runs a hand through his hair again, scrubbing at the sand and dirt and grimaces. "Marlowe has him," he spits out, like the name tastes bad on his tongue. He's so sick of Katherine Marlowe he could scream. "She's using him, she'll kill him when she's done if I don't find him."