Strange exits, and his shoulders sink; unaware until now of the angle they'd squared to. One he doesn't wear outside a signpost: This isn't a fight you want.

Strange grinds, mixes, at it stings his nostrils — his throat — even across the room. Never smashed the shit up himself. No patience for it, when it'll sell anyway. Never done it, and when he looks down in, it doesn't look like very much. Water and grit, and a funny sort of light.

Better hands. He props one under the back of his skull, tilts Barrow's face up. Steady. Low,

"Cheers, mate."

And he pours. And they wait.