Thomas isn't sure if he wants any of his family or anyone he knows in this place. Looking out over the skyline, unfamiliar and strange, clear of smoke and industry, he thinks that his brothers and cousins would not be sure what to do in a place like this. Johnny Dogs and his gypsies, Esme, even Aunt Pol would be hemmed in in a place like this.

Tommy can feel the edges of it pressing around him. This is an unfamiliar place to him. For a man that spent nearly eighteen years in and around a single city, he can't imagine this sudden captivity.

He watches her touch her arm. He can make out the dark stain of ink, though the tracing is, itself, a little muddled. They're bolder, newer, than his own tattoos. "You haven't had them long," he points out, lifting his eyebrows in place of nodding at her arms.