Mildmay is happy to lapse into silence once more. He'll listen and, if he's lucky, sneak out the door when no one's looking. Slowly, the feeling of The Mirador's soirees comes to mind; people talking about shit Mildmay doesn't care about while he sits in the corner and feels like a fool. Then again, it's his fault, this time. Then again, isn't it always his fault?

Mildmay eats his pizza and listens about the draft.