It's a strange thing to realize that the tension he feels has little to do with concern that Cato doesn't know how to handle the gun; there's something else about the weapon that sits unpleasantly in his chest, but he doesn't want to look too closely at the thought, as if there's something dangerous down that particular road. His life has enough trouble right now, he doesn't need to go adding to it by indulging in useless introspection.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" If there's a slight edge of hysteria in his voice, that's his own business, because he has it handled and it's fine and he's driving exactly at the speed limit to avoid unwanted attention, suddenly grateful that he drives the same kind of car that half the town drives. They're not going to be able to avoid the consequences of this, but he can delay it for a little while, especially if he aims for the edges of town where they're less likely to run into a patrol. "Yet here I am, not a bloody question on my mind 'cause I wouldn't have a clue where to even start with how nonsensical this week has been. Do bats eat cats? Do cats eat bats?"

Quoating Alice In Wonderland isn't how he expected to end that sentence, and yet it feels apt now that he's drawn the comparison. Cato is the white rabbit, it seems, leading him into a world where nothing makes a lick of sense and a powerful old woman is offing people left and right. Or maybe he's the Cheshire Cat, considering how much easier he seems to be handling this situation.