[Malcolm had to get out of walls for a little bit. He was losing the battle with his own brain. He needed the distraction of different scenery. Of walking until lactic acid built up in his leg muscles and they burned. Of snow falling on his face like little pinpricks.

By the time he looked around, he realized he didn't know exactly which way he'd come. He frowned faintly. Then spotted a man ahead of him, examining his own ankle and a familiar device.]

....Is that an ankle monitor?

[From one well-dressed New Yorker to another, he knows what those are for. But he's had time to find a sweater and a winter coat, both a little too long on him, around town. He's been here over a week. His fine Italian leather shoes do look a little worse for wear, but he hasn't yet found a suitable replacement.]

If you managed to run here? They'll never find you. [A beat.] Though there is a US Marshal in town; I don't know if that counts as getting caught.