Neal looks up from the stove. Just a glance. Looking directly at Atticus is hard tonight in a way it rarely, if ever, is. He's afraid of what he'll see. Exasperation? Frustration? The last thing Atticus wrote keeps rising to the front of his mind. It could be snatched away at any moment with just a few words, and Neal's not used to being nervous.

"I can do the talking." He pauses to flip the sandwich, pressing on it with the spatula until it sizzles. "I'm good at filling the silence."