— Thanks.

Tom is glaring at me.

— That's it? We're letting him go after that lame bullshit?

— We're letting him go because it is not our nature to hold people against their will, Tom.

— But he knows something. Look at him, he's gloating. He knows something and he's making fun of us right now.

I glance at Tom as I walk past him.

— What's eating you, Tom? Still can't find a vegan substitute for blood?

He lunges at me and Lydia throws an arm bar on him. She locks him up tight and looks at me, tsk-tsking her head back and forth.

— Tacky, Joe.

— Yeah, well.

I'm halfway up the stairs, Hurley behind me, when Terry calls after.

— By the way, what happened to your face?

— Rolled out of bed this morning and pulled open the curtain. Don't know what it is, I just keep thinking I'm still alive or something.

— Be careful about that, Joe. Thinking like that, it gets us dead.

— So I hear.

Then I'm through the basement door, into the hallway, and out onto the street, Hurley right behind me. We're on Avenue D between 5th and 6th. Hurley starts walking north toward 6th and I follow him.

— So how 'bout my guns, Hurley?

— Terry says I gotta walk ya a ways first.

— OK.

We turn west onto 6th.

— Sorry 'bout clobber'n ya from behind an all.

— Yeah, sure.

We're about halfway down the block when he stops and turns to me.

— Sorry, Joe.

— So you said, Hurley.

— Naw, I mean sorry bout dis.

— Sorry about what?

— Terry says I got ta rough ya up some.

I blink.

— When the hell did he say that? I didn't hear him say that.

— He told me when ya was still out.

— What the hell for?

— He said it was fer ben a smart mout.

— What the hell? I was out cold, I hadn't even had a chance to smart off.