For a moment, Saturday looks her age: all of twenty and a bit, vulnerable and very lost and so desperately needing someone to tell her that she's done enough and she can rest. Then she narrows her eyes, hearing her own words to others coming out of his mouth, aimed at her. Game recognize game - is this what it feels like, then, to have someone beam warm confidence at you out of basically nowhere just when you need the pick-me-up? No wonder it gets people where they live, even when she barely knows them.

She can't decide for a moment if she wants to laugh or burst out crying.

"That's what I tell myself," she settles on saying, because it's a kind thing he's doing. "It's gotten me this far. Sorry. Didn't mean to dump on you."

She takes the final drag of her cigarette to patch the leaks, gather up the memories of insect limbs in wrong configurations, flesh and tech forced into violent marriage; of the things that were people before they were taken, cringing from the open cell door; of the light in Caim's eyes dying and Maggie's blood on the floor. She tips it all down the memory hole and stands on the hatch.

"Thanks," she says, eyes clear and voice steady.