Guns aren't her style? That's singularly unhelpful, he thinks, but he doesn't have time to get into a debate with her about the usefulness of guns. Oddly, he finds that he does remember tears, although it's not something he should know about if he's really back home in New York.

"Get us another weapon," he says, voice tight, anxiety clearly mounting as the not particularly pleased group of gangsters approach them, yelling at them, taunting them, telling them that there's no way four against two can turn out well. He ignores them, not allowing himself to be drawn out by their juvenile manner. If they both remain calm, they can get through this.

"I can't take out four guys on my own," he says, amending his previous statement slightly. While he hopes it doesn't come down to a standoff like that, he's not optimistic. They'd tried to talk it out, tried to come to an agreement, but those four guys had been stubborn, and they'd seemed bent on violence of some kind or another.