He grins sharply at the observation: "I'm not," he agrees. "But. You think that would help?"

Raguel seems doubtful; he doesn't ask the question out of any real hope that he'd get there in the next hundred years, anyway.

"You know," he repeats, and tilts his head. "Lots of things."

He looks at her inquiringly. The gunshots go off again, a little closer.