"Okay," Tyrone responded quietly, Lounging in his armchair, elbows on knees, cigarette and lighter in hand.

"Didn't you see her yesterday? Why not deliver it yourself?" Damon asked, Lighting his own cigarette.

He remembered Tyrone's swift punch to the thief, a memory accentuated by the imagined sound of breaking ribs.

Tyrone drew heavily on his cigarette, exhaling slowly as the smoke twirled upwards and vanished.

The chill of Sabrina's words from yesterday, "I don't want to remarry you," lingered with him, colder even than December in Norwen.