He realizes as he reaches for Watson's bag that his hands are shaking. His hands don't shake, never shake, not unless he's in need of cocaine or close to orgasm; this situation is somewhere nearer the first problem, maybe even somewhere beyond that, and he fumbles in his bag to produce the tweezers. He has no reply for his admonishment; he knows he's sick with worry and he really does not care.

"Here," he says, handing them over. "Brandy -- would you like some? For the pain?"