He could. Ordinarily, he could, and quick — right kind of woman says get that off, you listen. Abby's not that sort, but the skills of a lifetime, they keep.

It's just that tugging the laces means turning his chest, means winching himself up to a task's only gonna hurt. He could just stay sat down here.

"Was it at least a good knife?" He reaches for the ties. Breathes hard, in and out, on the comic suck of blood. "Impressive-like?"

If he can wave a blade in both hands, one's still better than other; so the fiddly bits take a second now. (Take longer than the lock.) A second, and the vest flaps open. The shitty little seal loosens over torn shirt.