"Oh we ought to get right along then," Tommy says, somewhere between exhausted and morbidly relieved. He's not sure how he feels, actually, about a Russian-sounding woman that works for governments and gangs, baldly telling him that sort of thing. But then, it also seems exactly the sort of thing that a Russian would do, given what he's learned about them in the past few months.

They're all fucking crazy.

The thought of food turns his stomach. "Tea," he says gently. "And no fucking straws, please. I promise I'll only move a little."