[Raylan was more comfortable face to face. There were no hang ups - people had to walk away if they wanted to stop having a conversation and that still didn't get rid of him following, if he felt like it. Or scaring them into leaving him alone, if he had to.

He kept his gaze up on the inky black, studded with pinprick stars and rolled his 4th cigarette in the last hour between his fingers. Better, maybe, that he run out, stop a nasty habit he shouldn't've picked up.]

He's in a coma. He's okay, aside from that. Whatever the fuck she put in my flask poisoned both my partner and my fuckin' inmate. Roman got my gun. Shot John Seed in a fit. Sent me crawlin' along the walls like a scared and wild hillbilly. All because they drank from my goddamned fist. Sufferin' a death toll is least she could suffer, and it needn't be on my hands.