That's probably the best answer he's going to get, though 'not much' isn't quite comforting. He nods and his grip slackens; his hand remains lying there as if he needs to keep track of Roland. Maybe he does.

At the suggestion with the voices, Firo'd turned to hear, but then he twists right back around to stare in disbelief. Is he lecturing him? Now? "Are you serious? I'd rather him not be able to blow our goddamn heads off than not be able to talk."

Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Bullets hurt a lot.

But now also isn't the time to argue, so, resigned, he turns back around and strains his ears. It's hard to fight past the clutter of sound around them--his ears aren't as sharp as his eyes--but he can make some things out.

'Hurry up--' 'How many?' 'I don't freaking know, you--'

At their tones, Firo's certain of one thing. They may be outnumbered, but, "They're scared of us. I bet if we got up and--" And charged them, he was about to say, it would catch them off guard. A strategy Firo's used plenty of times before no matter the weapon turned on him. But he bites his tongue, worried that the suggestion's just going to make his friend mad.

With a flash of anger, Firo realizes he shouldn't be second guessing at a time like this, but what can he do?