"Cassidy, lass. Tom's my first name." He smiles back at her, but it isn't warm or happy or relieved. It's a crocodile's expression, full of teeth and an inescapable sense of motion, as if his mouth will snap at any second, faster than the eye can see.

He leans against one of the counters, one that used to be stacked high with beakers and test tubes and now is nothing but a nice, clean surface to look at people over. He looks at his fingernails. He watches Molotov from the corner of his eye. He's a cat toying with a mouse.

"It's not that I'm totally heartless, mind you, but how do you plan on replacing our food when you clearly can't find any of your own to start with?"