[if asked on a day he could sort his thoughts properly, mike would say that jin guangyao has absolutely run the gauntlet without any reason to have done so other than he was there. that should be reason enough if not doubly so. but the question derails his train of thought, though it will find its way round again, it's just a momentary detour.]

Anywhere there's room. Just move the tapes. Or, here---

[all that energy, it's easy to move them, shoving them with his feet into a corner, not noticing if a few of them blink out of existence maybe to reappear in a different corner, or maybe not at all.]

You've got to stop doing that. First rule of Casa del Mike? No more calling yourself lowly, okay? A few weeks after we met, I wandered into the wrong end of the docks three sheets to the wind, that's shitfaced drunk in case you don't know, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up in a dinghy, feeling like ten different kinds of shit because someone decided I needed to do a little blood donating. And by a little I mean most of it. 'Cause it sells for top dollar, apparently.

[a rub of his fingers and thumb together, as he casually tells how he almost died.]

And they stole my hat.

You found me in worse shape than that and what did you do? You helped me. Which, you're doing again now, I might point out. So that trust? It's not going anywhere. Why do you think I called you?