It’s easy to keep pace with Dumas, who has very long legs but is rarely in a rush to be anywhere. As he often is on this field, he’s bristled rough and scuzzy with sweat, rolling one shoulder stiff in its socket as he pulls his canteen from his belt.

“Noble of you,” he says, working the cap, “being the bigger man.”

He takes a long swig, and dumps the rest over his head and down the back of his neck, likely splashing nearly as much onto Barrow as he does onto himself.

“Don’t fret over it, I don’t give a shit.”