"They have umbrellas," he answers distantly, and truly, the idea of a ridiculously bourgeois black umbrella suddenly seems unbearably appealing in the jungle. To think he'd scorned them only so many months ago for their societal connotations. Clearly hardship brought with it practicality. He's only half aware of how he must sound. Somehow everything about this situation suddenly seems incredibly, ethereally absurd, and it's difficult to for him to focus on any one aspect of it.

Closing his eyes, he attempts to clear his thoughts before addressing the man-- creature-- man again. "Do you think you could string several of them together? Do these last you for very long?"