The rise and fall of the stitching doesn't still. Not entirely at least. But Marcoulf shoots him a narrow sideways look from under the shadow of his brow. Don't be rude, lad.

Still: "It's bad luck to spill too much of your blood in the same place," he says, pulling at his newly mended seam and reinforcing the end that frays. "And I'm not much for Vints. Don't speak the language and don't much care to learn."

The thread is knotted. He turns the shirt right side out again.

"I hope mending isn't why you're meant to be here."

Your stitching is irregular, Finch.