(In point of fact, he DOES have a tattoo on his back, and another that is, uh, yes, lower down. But neither of those are visible at the moment.)

Jeremy stares in hungover fascination as packet after packet... after packet... after packet... of sugar disappears into Metody's cup. Here he'd thought he was bad.

"You're not diabetic, right?" he says slowly, eyes helplessly following sugar into the cup. "Last time I saw that much white powder there were rolled-up bills and hookers involved."

He drags his attention back up to Metody's earnest, attempting-to-be-reassuring gaze. "Shelter? Right. Yeah. Shelter. I've got an apartment. I mean it's not just mine, but--"

No. Wait. They're not in Vegas. Or something.