The way she describes the difference makes it feel weighty and important, though for good or ill, Darlington can't determine, aside from a sense that it matters. He hadn't woken up in a strange bed, in a room that may be unlike any he finds familiar from wherever he might call home; he'd shown up now, lost in the desert along with however many others. He hadn't chosen it, he doesn't think, but he'd been chosen for it, and found his way here.

He'd been tested, and by whatever rubric this place used, he hadn't failed.

For now, he puts that thought aside to examine further later, focusing again on Cecelia. He doesn't know her well enough to be certain the faint shift in her expression is concern, or that the edge in her voice and the press of fingers to her temple might be a sign of distress, but there's enough of both things there to make the assumption easy--even if it's inaccurate. "Hey, if there's more of us out there," he says, "they'll find their way back. You found me. Someone else might find them."