By then, William's hands are squeaky clean, white as fishbelly. He dries them off on a square of recycled paper, which I'm just going to go ahead and assume we have in a roll, okay, I know it's not the most environmentally friendly thing but it can't possibly be the least, either. It's more sanitary than reusing any rags around.

He smiles at her gratefully before accepting his cup. It's a throwback to a culture long dead, that he bobs his head and lifts it slightly in thanks, before turning to hold it under the running faucet. It fills quickly enough, and then he's moving out of her way. "We had people like you in my world," he answers. "Uh, I mean. Well all the kinds of people you are, I guess. People helping refugees, and people who've got powers.

"People who fought." A beat. "I guess you're only two for three now." He takes a measured sip of water, like he doesn't really want to, but he's the one who came up with this bright idea anyway so he must.