I light my cigarette.

– You lost me at copse.

Lydia points at the NO SMOKING sign above the door.

– You mind?

I take another drag.

– Sister, if you can get through this without a smoke or a drink, more power to you. Me, I’m made of weaker stuff.

She crosses to a black-painted window over the sink, pinches the heads of the thirty penny nails driven through the frame into the sill, draws them out with a squeak, the upside-down pink triangle tattooed on her shoulder jumping as her muscles flex, and shoves the window open.

– I’m not your sister. My sisters share my values and concerns. They don’t put money into the pockets of death merchants.

She drops the nails on the sill.

– And, Terry, a little support on the no-smoking policy would be appreciated.

He rests his hands palms up on the points of his knees.

– Trees, guys. Forest. Copse.

Lydia folds her arms.

– The Candy Man wasn’t infected. The Van Helsing killed him like he was infected. He or she knew all this other stuff, but didn’t know Solomon was a civilian. That’s your odd tree.

He snaps his fingers.

– That’s it, that’s what I’m talking about. That particular piece of foliage seen on its own is just another fragment of the ecosystem, just another link in the chain of life. But in context of our forest? It stands out like a sequoia in the Amazon. An uninfected dealer in the forest of the Vyrus. Solomon has always been an exotic, yeah? So now, now something happens, someone yanks that tree, uproots it and salts the earth. But the way they go about it, it looks like they got a handle on the terrain, like they should maybe know better. So why kill that tree like it’s a, and I don’t like this analogy any better than you will, Lydia, but I’m talking here from this gardener’s point of view, why kill this tree like it’s a weed? Seeing as you know the difference. The Van Helsing I’m talking here.