It would be inaccurate to call her inconsiderate, as the art student smiled wide because of her consideration of my woes. Which made me feel a little bit better. A reaction like this was more comfortable to me than awkward sympathy and worry. And at any rate, she was getting positive feelings thanks to me. “So you’ve graduated from shut-in to killer.” “Isn’t that a step down?” “It’s a step up in my book. ...Hey, let’s go walking tonight. We’ll waste that meager postponement of yours. Sound good? It’s so comforting having you around.” “I’m honored.” “Great. How about a toast?” She indicated a bottle of beer in front of the shelves. “Isn’t there lots you want to forget, want to not think about?” “I’ll hold off on drinking. I want to be able to drive right away when that call comes.” “I see. Well, it’ll be water for you then, mister killer. Because, uh, beer and water is all I’ve got.” Watching her drop ice into her glass and pour the whiskey, I felt a pang of nostalgia. It was an odd sensation; I felt like we were in a picture book or a painting. “Sorry, can I have a glass of that after all?” “That’s what I was planning to give you.” She quickly filled the other glass with whiskey. “So then, cheers.” “Cheers.” The rims of our glasses touched and made a lonely clink. “I’ve never had a drink with a killer before,” she remarked while squeezing lemon juice into her glass. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Be sure to savor it.” “I will,” she grinned, slyly narrowing her eyes.