Alex knows his life is the direct opposite of normal, so getting to spend some nice normal quality time with his best friend is a highlight.

"So, where were you this time?" Tom asks. He happily munches on a packet of chips. "Or am I not allowed to know?"

"You're probably not supposed to," Alex replies, "but it was Cuba." He stares at the buildings across from them, silently and unwillingly noting every detail, every tiny thing that could possibly mean danger. There shouldn't be any danger here, of course, in broad daylight with witnesses all around, but he can't change the way he thinks now.

"I've heard it's nice there," Tom says brightly.

Alex's mind flashes to the oily smoke of a bombed boat, to blood-clouded waters, to Sarov. Sarov.

"Yeah, it was nice," he lies. His words only choke him a little.

Tom looks at him sideways. He's skeptical, definitely, but by now Alex is used to that. He feels like he'll be facing it a lot more.

He steals a few of Tom's chips, noting but not responding to Tom's protests of, "Bro…that's so…not cool…you said you didn't want any." He stares at the people around him, feels the warmth of Tom next to him, knows that he himself is alive, and wonders.

Who would believe him if he told them how close they were to losing everything?