“South as you want,” Faraday says, oblivious to the suspicious look Vasquez cuts him, though there’s a slight upturn to the words, like he’s almost posing it as a question. He shrugs a little helplessly, shaking his head. “South as you need. Down into the territories, maybe. Arizona or New Mexico. Or, hell, I dunno. Farther than that, if that’s what you want.”

He loses a bit of steam, then, jaw clenching, before he looks down at the table at his still full glass. He knocks back the shot of whiskey, breathing through the familiar burn that fills his nose, travels down his throat. This, at least, has the small advantage of re-centering him, though he knows all too well that too much “re-centering” might fog up his head, make him do or say something he’ll regret once he’s sober again.

“I ain’t married to California,” he says with finality. He’s wandered all along the coast, in and out of the various territories that make the west; maybe he had a preference for the freedom this far out, but a part of him thinks he’d abandon that, if Vasquez wanted.

And that’s a part of him he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.