"Patience," Marcus murmurs, wipes her chin with the corner of the purple stole: an automatic, perfunctory movement. "Patience, prayer, faith." He glances up, trying to take stock. They can move into the ensuite bathroom, perhaps. More walls between them and the angry neighbour. But if someone comes knocking, there's no way to get out. The alternative is that he can chance driving Joan somewhere isolated. They're outside of town. If he floors it (and he can, thanks to the engine), they could find a layby easily. But that means being trapped in a car if the demon resurfaces, and it means she could more easily escape again...

He looks back to Joan. "We're making it angry," he says quietly. "That's when it gets harder to hold it back. So you ain't doing anything wrong when you can't fight it down, that's what we want. Get it angry enough, it makes mistakes, it loses its grip, it's more vulnerable to what I'm doing." He gnaws his lip a moment. "What we're doing. Do you — Joan, listen. Do you know anything about it? What do you...if you had to say what it looks like, what it's scared of, what it's called?"

It's gotten into her. Maybe she's gotten into it too.