“No—Kris. I love you. Go to bed. You’re drunk and tired.” “I’m fine. Totally sober. Never been more alert in my life.” Coal rolls his eyes. “Of course. You’re a picture of angelic grace. And since you’re so consumed by angelic grace right now, I’m going to tell you what to do, and you will gracefully obey me. One, you’re going to stop drinking whiskey, you lightweight dumbass. Two, you’re going to lay down and go to sleep. Three, you’re going to pretend that anytime Lochlann speaks, all you hear are choirs of little kids singing Catholic hymns. Four, you’re going to go to sleep.”
