[He just nods at that. "Skirting death" – very apt. It'd shown up for him one day (those six months ago) and ever since beating it that first time, it's kept returning time and time again, as if to claim the life it'd been cheated. He's felt like he's been skirting death for ages now.

And he'll continue to do so here, he supposes. Too stubborn not to. Even if what's waiting for him at the end of their journey is... A bit of an unknown.

At length, he finally replies:] I think I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

[Winging it is a strategy he probably employs a little too often for his own good, but it's hard to argue with the results. When he used to walk a beat, a cop fresh on the streets, he'd learned very early on not to ignore his instincts – he'd regretted it every time he had.]

But if there's even the smallest chance that I'm still alive when I get back– it's worth it to go. [There's some business that only he can take care of. His tone might imply as much.]