“Thirteen years for me,” she says. “How long for you?” He seems to consider the question as Barry moves toward him and kicks the revolver across the room. “Who knows?” he says finally. “After you ghosted off my oil platform—well done, by the way, never understood exactly how you pulled that off—it took me years to rebuild the chair. But since then, I’ve lived more lifetimes than you can possibly fathom.”
