( The second she answers twenty-five, she's met with an absent murmur that sounds suspiciously like same difference. Frank's of the old school annoying variety of middle-aged man that sees anyone with an age that starts with 2 as barely constituting an adult. That she's barely even halfway through her twenties might as well make her a teenager. It's some real Dad Math.

There's a space between what she thinks and what she says. A nice, sizable silence that speaks volumes, no matter how much effort she puts into keeping things light and casual.

Maybe she thinks he kills because he's lonely, and he needs some good woman to soften his heart up. Maybe she thinks having a girlfriend, a wife, a partner, would level him out and tether him to a more morally wholesome path. One way or another he's betting it ties back to that elephant in the room they don't really talk about, and it has him slowly shaking his head. )

I wouldn't worry about it. I get enough cardio.

( You know, what with all that murdering he does. )

Pretty sure however I wind up goin' out, an ambulance isn't gonna make a damn bit of difference. Appreciate the concern. Good lookin' out.

( He does not appreciate the concern. It is not good lookin' out. Go away, kid. Go do twenty-something pool-stuff. )