"Yeah, a waste of weed rolled in shitty paper." Kira's sleep-dragging eyes roll over, like this is one practical concern he can't pretend to shoulder today. "There's a kid making it by the Hall. It feels like stale fruit-leather but it takes ink." Not any help in the weed consumption department, though.

Keeping an arm hooked over the back of the chair, he maintains his slouch. When he keeps answering, it's with eyes averted, a distance forming in him around the exhaustion and--fuckery of it all. How is he here, how has it been so long that this is just his life? Bodies on hooks, and Sonny promised not to let them bleed him dry, but Sonny isn't here anymore. "I've got some carving tools I'm not using," he says. "And I know how to make one out of an apple, I guess I could do the same shit with an apple-size hunk of wood."