“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to break everything and not be able to put it back together?” he asks sincerely. “Yes,” I say, understanding myself better than I have for a long time. “That’s why I have Mustang.” He stares at me for a long, odd moment before shaking his head and chuckling at himself or me. “I wish it was easier to hate you.” “There’s a toast if I ever heard one.” I raise my glass and he his, and we drink in silence. But before he parts with me that night, I give him a holocube to watch in his cell. I apologize in advance for its contents, but it’s something he needs to see.
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