[A hand wiggles free but Donnie manages to redirect it over his bandanna. He knocks his goggles askew, pulls at his mask tails in agitation.] ...you don't know that. You might hope it, but you can't empirically know. [Gives his mask tails another yank, hard enough to pull it taut against his cheeks and over his beak before he abruptly lets go and thrusts his scratched arm out in Rue's direction.] Squeeze, please. Forearm. Hard, not gentle.