On the floor with his hand in the drawer and sniveling and sobbing and getting snot and fucking tears all over himself over something so stupid stupid stupid stupid, just a name, name of some dead kid, some kid he hadn't been for as long as he could remember a life worth living, wasn't worth crying over, never had been worth crying over, nobody ever cried over that kid. Maybe someone would'a cried over the Turk. The Turk was somebody. If something happened to the Turk, he'd drop off the face of the planet entirely and more people would remember him than that street punk that he used to be. Reno of the Turks was totally fine with the possibility of slipping off into obscurity after he died. At least other Turks knew he'd been alive. And the bottle was in his lap now and he still couldn't see what it was. Wasn't really looking. Didn't need to know.

Booze was booze and he'd down the whole damn bottle the moment he was alone no matter what was in it, anyhow.

"Sorry... 'M sorry. You don't have to... I'm. 'M fine, zoto. 'M sorry."

She said she had him. He wasn't even sure which him. Nothing made sense anymore, and there he was, sitting on his floor choking on himself and apologizing.

He'd been doing too much apologizing, lately.