She's a bourbon drinker, and the boys don't have anything on her. And she's drinking like it's a Catholic funeral.

Which it sort of is.

"There's a whole world of people who would call what we have to live with a gift," she spat. "Fucking morons. Fucking civilians."

"It saved my life," said Alan.

"For now."

Glasses are raised to lips and dropped back down to the table. Alan stares into the amber liquid; can't meet anyone's eyes. These could be our last drinks together. We should toast something.

"So why?" asked Kemp.

"How can we not? That's the beauty of our situation. You can see the marks, you can see the Timers, you know exactly when death is coming. And this gives you the opportunity to do something about it. Gives you the imperative. But it's all a lie. There's not really anything you can do. You kill them, and they'll come back. You save someone, and you just kill them more slowly. You interfere, and they mark you. You run, and they catch you."

When you want to see how deep the ocean is, you can't worry about consequence. We're swimming now, we'll wait to see who drowns.

Kemp motioned for another round. "Do we have a plan?"

We do not. Eyes on Nica.

"I'll deal with Daddy myself."