101.

Manhattan doesn't know any better. Lit up like Christmas, if Christmas was also the day America shafted G.B. in 1776. Armageddon bright. Brilliant, shining like virgin artillery. Resplendent. (City on a hill and all that.) The light of the godforsaken world.

Today is the 7th of March. Manhattan doesn't know any better.

She speaks:

"I'm going to be dead in something like an hour."

He licks his lips.

"Metaphorically?"

She plucks a lullaby, trigger, stringed instrument in the air. "In the same way that I'm alive metaphorically, sure."

"Am I going to help?"

Manhattan grins.

"I expect it'll be your idea."