"Dickerson is discreet," Hands weighed, as though it were an honest suggestion (as though he would turn John away) - "Colin isn't."

His mouth pulls aside. Tugged half against anchor,

"Have things changed between us?"

Inevitably. He flounders against the urge to specify, to append it with some scrawl of nervey notation. They have known, from the beginning, some measure of what each other are. Some,

Not all of it.