Food- any kind he knew. Powdered, canned, leftover, fictional, real-- silence wasn't a concern to him. More than once he managed to create a ruckus outside of his own shuffling and heavy breathing. More than once he found himself wanting to shout out but he miraculously managed to be self-aware enough to stifle the urge. He couldn't spot Holiday rummaging through the existing nothingness next to him and he felt heat rise up in his throat and build up in the bridge of his nose. He was angry but it didn't matter because there was nothing, anyway. When he feels his way out and spots her guarding the entrance, he figures, the anger collapses just as he wishes he could.

"Dirt," he announces. "Lots of that. The world will never want for... dirt."

His breathing was labored and he wondered if he should make it so obvious how out of shape he was around the woman wielding the weapon. Her children would go hungry. If she hadn't lied, Hawkeye figured she had more to worry about than the ragged man stating the obvious. "Do we go out the same way we came in?" Sounds like puke, he thinks. "Is there some secret tunnel I don't know about?" He's not looking forward to another run. "There wasn't anything left."