Whatever. Ten, thirteen, same difference. [Dee isn't a parent and has absolutely zero intent to become one, so children all blur together in a continuum of annoyances that aren't old enough to be self-sufficient or do anything interesting. Call her when the kid's twenty-five, maybe then she'll give a damn.] Can you blame me for losing my temper when I ask for help and people talk about tying me up and torturing me? Ever think maybe I've been there, done that, didn't love it?

[It's not even the waterboarding, which she doesn't hold against Frank any more than she holds it against him that he instructed her elementary school photographer to just send put stock photos of a prettier third grader in the yearbook instead or had her spend a summer doctoring expiration dates on imported diet medication for resale when she was twelve. It's the feeling of being backed into a corner yet again, the exhaustion at having to always be on the defensive if not the straight-up offensive. Her patience for it is thin right now.]

I'm not going to hurt anyone. Jesus Christ, you're cynical. [She points towards the bar.] That one. What kind of person do you think I am? But if you try to break my knees I'll actually rip your head off with my bare hands.