Sweeney doesn't remember. He certainly can't imagine. There's never been any part of any life where he can place that moment. That feeling. That first.

He picks the bag up off the grass and tucks it in his pocket before pulling a cigarette down for himself. He takes the time to light it, pausing after the first drag to look down at it.

"Do ya wish I was more like him?" he asks simply, though his voice has lowered a touch and he hasn't looked at her. "The Frenchie."