Content. Drunk. Six of one, half a bluhblahbluhbla

"On what?" Jess wastes the words before working out what he means: Pet names. He's not requesting an arbitrator in their pathetic pillow skirmish. (Her verdict would be that they're both losers. Neither of them are out for blood. Jess has seen dance moms apply makeup with more force than that.) "Naming which one, that one?" She nods to the cat-something hybrid that's planted to Kamala, unmoving so as to not get caught in the crossfire.