A sudden pulse of fear jerks Neal's attention to the man standing behind Malcolm, an eyebrow raised.

"That ain't an encouraging question, Whitly," Keller says, his Jersey drawl not-quite-amused.

Though the man's tone is dry and ironic, Neal's stomach squeezes, then drops. He quickly unzips his jumpsuit, shedding it and wadding it into a trash bag he pulls from a pocket. He shakes the plastic at Malcolm. "Wherever we want to, once we ditch these uniforms."