Black dribbles from the edge of his lips. Too much saliva in his mouth. Lazar drags the soggy roll loose, turns it over to examine. Flecks linger on fingertip, in the creases of gum.

Bitter.

"Yeah," He spits in the cup. He drinks from the pitcher – each swallow crackling the cartilage from his throat, where the handprint swells in wide ruddy contusion. "Yeah, they still let me see him, then. Called it an accident. But I think Ma knew."

A glance over Barrow's shuddered form. Seen plenty of folks in a bad way, and they always get thirsty at the end, and Lazar knows better than to waste the water. Won't help where he's going.

(Impulse stirs. He hefts the pitcher handle, experimental, and that wouldn't fly here,)

Sets it down. A thick palm finds his shoulder, and settles there. Tomorrow, the cloth will stain.