He's going off to the kitchen. "In case you were thinking of it," he calls over his shoulder to Freddy. A drink sounds nice. There's enough still in the refrigerator, the one man mini-binge didn't wipe out the supply. He waits nursing the cold beer, trying to think over exactly what this state or state of their relationship is. They share a home, they should by all rights be dead or imprisoned. At least Larry would be. The kid, the cop would be in for a mean probation period. Both fates seem like shit. Here they are, despite odds living comfortably.

Two bedrooms with no one to fool under this roof. Not even Alba. She wasn't told but she knows through and through. Señor and Señor both pay her well. She has nothing to complain about. The house is somehow a home.

Larry crosses the room to stare into the TV. He's not paying attention. It illuminates the room from it's corner. The lights play out over the floor. Some sort of car crash is happening. All of the stage blood is too gratuitous with it's strawberry jam color and consistency. When he starts to pay attention the image disgusts him. A deep sip of his beer and he stops the tape.