Neal’s stomach does an uncomfortable little somersault. That question is so dangerous. So pointless. He gathers breath to answer, stops, then tries again. Very quietly. Still holding Malcolm’s hand.

“I’m married. We have a kid, or are going to have a kid. Two kids.”

He stares into space thoughtfully. “I…” Do art restoration? Own a gallery? Offer security consultations? “I teach.”

A memory of a case that feels like lifetimes ago surfaces and he smiles. “Art, maybe. Or literature. History. If I’m at a high school maybe I teach all three, who knows.”

He makes an amused noise and shakes his head, then looks at Malcolm. “…What about you?”