For a brief, painful moment, Martin nearly slips away. His cup sets down hard on the cart, and the prim figure blurs, clouds, and means to disappear. For Jon's words, though, a sick, black spurt redraws his silhouette, leaving Martin hunched over the little set, glowering under the questioning. He spits back, an unfamiliar frustration that he always spared Jon (like he always spares Jon), and shock, and hurt: "Jonathan Sims. How dare you?"