The October night was cold and entirely indifferent to the events of the previous seventeen hours, the way night was — unhurried, doing its own thing, the harbour lights doing their reflection work on the water.
We walked sixty seconds to the subway entrance.
I stopped at the top of the steps. He stopped beside me.
I turned to look at him.
He was looking at me. The grey eyes, in the dark, were darker — the colour of deep water rather than surface water, and there was something in them that was not the professional register, not the managed distance, not the careful calibration of the past month.
Something that was simply — there.
"Damien," I said.
"Nova," he said.
"It's two forty-five in the morning," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"We have to be functional by Monday," I said.
"Yes," h
