Tzich sat on the mucky ground a few feet beside her, his arms on his knees and a haggard cough in his throat. He squinted up at the spark of sunlight that hovered in the space between buildings, a stark contrast to the reek that permeated everything. This was like sitting among the racks, imagining sky. He imagined Carly's difficulty a bit better.

"I thought I was here to teach you how to find your strength," he said idly, still peering at the blue above. "Turns out you're a pro at hulking it, turning yourself inside-out and through. Turns out I've got the harder job."

After awhile he looked at her, noted the blood and the look on her face. "You feel like shit because you threw it all at once. You're chucking handfuls of bullets at your opponent and your gun's in the holster. There's thought," he tapped his temple, "and precision. Each bullet has the power to kill, but used wrong you just make a mess. Is your diabetes-head following?"

He arched his back, rummaged in a pocket, pulled a stick of gum for himself and tossed her the pack. It was hard as a rock. "I told you not to touch the thing." He popped the gum in his mouth and crunched. "There's a sort of poison in those kind of demons that's either flesh-eating or soul-decaying, I can't remember which. It's probably halfway through your body by now." He leaned his head back and stared at the sky again, very glad he hadn't come in contact with the dog's dripping maggoty flesh.