[ Talking seems to be helping, or at least leading to more talking. That name—Malvo—even sounds like it could be real, although Jupe's pretty sure he's never heard it before. And leaving is, you know, definitely a smart short- and long-term goal.

That's the good news.

The bad news is the woman keeps coming, her steps slowing as she nears Jupe and the twitchy mess whose shoulder Jupe's still touching. With a muttered sorry he firms his grip into an approximation of a manly clasp and hopes the guy doesn't jump out of his skin. ] No, I don't think so. [ He says with a shake of his head as the woman approaches, cart rattling and heels click-clicking. ] I haven't seen any, uh, pears. Maybe they're out of season? What kind are you looking for? [ Everything about it is a little overdone: Jupe's voice a little too loud, enunciation a little too crisp, his feigned interest in this manufactured conversation too intense.

The woman stops. They're close enough to smell her perfume. For a moment, she doesn't say anything, then, a pinch in her brow: ] Is that man all right? [ Tentatively, she shifts her focus to Numbers. ] Sir...?