Like Price, Dan doesn't raise his voice. It stays at that mid-level, almost atonal, breathy and dry. But he has a certainty to him, that son-of-a-preacher-man solidity to each word he says like it rebukes questioning.

"Judge people? Is that what this is about?" Dan goes through a quick journey, all written on his face, of confusion to hurt to annoyance. "Counselor, I ain't never held myself out as better than anyone else here. I ain't ever judged you and found you wanting. I've sure as hell disagreed with you, but that ain't the same as disrespecting you."

Dan feels hard-pressed to even properly address Price right now, because the accusation feels so completely inane compared to the fact that, in front of him, he can see an image clear as day of the girl who became his traveling companion and only family for years, the definition of "thick as thieves", as she flips through a giant book of miscellaneous CDs to pick the road music.

"I don't care if I look bad." To an extent, it's true. Dan wants to be social and make people happy and look out for them, but it's not about whether he's liked or respected. He's an illiterate, undocumented stripper and panhandler who lives in a car and sounds exactly like the twenty years of tobacco use he's lived. As far as he's concerned, Price may be the pariah of the New Hires, but Dan's the outcast in the world at large, his very existence extremely judgable. "I just don't want to remember things I can't have back. That's why I want to not talk about all this again. That's all. Ain't everyone out to get over on you, Counselor. You want the truth, the truth is that I'm a liar and a cheat and a whore and a thief, so if that makes my being kind to you hypocritical, so be it."