Howard winces, squeezing his eyes shut tighter for a moment, and slumps in his chair.

His own memory of that night is understandably blurred. He remembers the road wasn't where he expected it to be; he remembers vertigo and terror and screaming in the dark; he remembers it hurt, but not for how long.

"And Tony? He's—five years, he'd be eighteen now." He rubs his face with one hand, the one not occupied by an ex-beer, and opens his eyes. "How is he?"