As he eases himself onto his back, he speaks slower than she's probably ever heard him talk. The words and memories come to him as if through a hazy, narcotic-induced dream (well, there was all that NyQuil).

"Great kid. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's fun to be around. We do odd jobs 'round town when we can find 'em. He's got a car; I don't. Sorry-ass piece of shit, but it drives just fine, makes it easier to get where we gotta go to make a handful of cash. Small thing, though, need to fold m'self in half just to fit behind the wheel."

He chuckles, which inevitably dissolves into wheezing coughs.