He falls into a drowse. Rouses again. The steady, circular dip of his chin lower, lower; only to jerk up on absent whisper. On the space between each wheeze. Waiting for that telltale crackle. Waiting for it to stop.

The end never arrives. Strange does, and say this for Lazar: Say it short enough, he'll listen. Mouth down. Nothing in the mouth.

Bucking like a roach, he thinks, and says only,

"Naw." Arm shoves under shoulder, the other reaching across blubber to cup Barrow's ass. Might be funny, any other time. Might still be funny in Nevarra. "It's new."

He's gonna die, he thinks again, and this time he doesn't say anything at all. Apparently they're fucking committed. He hauls. Barrow's big, Lazar's strong, and never seen the doctor's hands so gimpy up close. Sets that away somewhere now, beside the times he hasn't poured a drink. The way his fingers shake out of sync with the flesh they press. Easy to break. That's a comfort. It's something to look at, something to watch other than Barrow's beetling arch.

(Sandar lived. Ma drove him off, and Sandar lived, and that's where he's gone wrong now. Should've gone at all.)