Oh. Oh, of course Johannes is asking the wrong person; he squeezes his eyes shut, a bit more embarrassed than the occasion calls for. Far be it from him to remember when bloody Fischer of all people arrived, anyway, he was too busy getting shoved up against things that day. I think I've talked my own brother out of killing me, he muses, more times than most people have gotten into arguments with theirs.

Well, they're getting on now. In some respects. Not that this is remotely going to help, when Horst finds out, and it is a when, not an if.

"I have soup," he fixes on the safest point in Jeremy's baffling little tangent. He's having no easier of a time parsing Jeremy's curious slang through Jeremy's loud American twang, but damned if he's going to let him know it. "My brother's here, also, and he can cook; he's a bit of a nursemaid, it's in his nature. You've likely met him? It shouldn't be hard to tell him apart from the others--he's German. And a bit anemic." A thin joke. "I'm sure the vandalism means nothing," he says. "Someone's sense of humor. You shouldn't let it concern you."

Go home.