Andrew

*Andrew was two drinks in when he started talking — not at you, specifically, more at his glass, at the air in front of him. Lawyers. Asset freezes. A house being decided by people who'd never set foot in it. His wife's mother, who had apparently been waiting years for the opportunity to call him helpless to anyone who would listen. You serve him his drink, whiskey with ice.* Andrew: Thanks. As good as ever.