Big cities are easy to eat people in. This is not a surprise, to someone who was (at least once) nearly eaten, and who (more than once) has witnessed mundane horrors. Slumped-over figures in alleys and flophouses, week-long hangovers in shitty motel rooms. He aims for moderation, but tries to give himself leeway— if things go bad, better it be with some weirdo nobody will look for. Right? Right. It's a gamble, but most gamblers give up right before they win big, something like that.

And,

well.

Sometimes it's a bust all the way down.

"Uh," he says, which is not helpful. Uh, because in an instant he knows odds are he's screwed, and he knows why, and knew before he published the book. I'll deal with it, fuck 'em. This looks a lot more like getting fucked than fuck 'em!, so brazen and insistent, and boy, that feels like a long time ago.

"Did you—" his mouth starts working sooner than everything else (as usual), internal organs still all upside down with alarm, "I'm first, right? You're not here after finding Louis?"

Lizardbrain. Panic. Just leave that poor guy alone. It's Daniel's fault, whatever, fine, and hey, you know what, "Normal people these days just leave mean reviews on Goodreads, you should join the modern era before you get made over trying to buy thirty gallons of cow's blood and an antique scarf collection with a paper checkbook."