She spreads her hands, palms up, in a gesture of frustration. “Why?” She holds up one slender finger. “Because you’re violent.” She holds up a second. “You’re angry.” Another. “You’re unpredictable. You’re impulsive, dangerous, vindictive, crazy, sadistic, vicious, bloodthirsty, and you’re just plain creepy.”

“You’re out of fingers,” he observes.

“I have extras.” She taps a pouch on her belt. “Cut ’em off a dealer after he tried to stiff me.”

“I can’t help feeling,” he says, “that this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”