In the thrill of the hunt Tom's become careless. He's so focused on getting that knife into Beth's throat that he doesn't address the crashing in the reeds behind him until it's too late to dodge the man entirely. The knife, unwetted by blood, drops into the water with a 'plop' that seems meek and fails to rise above the sound of struggle as Tom throws himself forward, trying to break Luke's headlock.

Tom's the more muscular of the two. It isn't just a matter of build, although Tom's in peak fitness for a man his age, and it isn't just skill in combat. There's something about survival that makes a body lean and efficient, as if cutting away anything that isn't an absolute necessity, but it's not the same as someone who fights for luxury, who never lets indulgence soften them up because they're always chasing the next thrill, the next girl, the next paycheck. Some people are meant to rove not out of circumstance but out of a sort of innate restlessness, a dissatisfaction with everything that they fail to realize is their train and not part of the environment.

Tom's one of those people. Like a pup he fights for the teat of opulence and drains it dry. And so he fights here with neither morals nor fear, grabbing the side of Luke's head, his ear, and yanking to try and pull the man off him, willing to beat him to death with his fists if he has to.