Shepard takes her time with the question, settling back in her seat, arms splayed to the side, legs stretching out to either side, bent at the knee. She leans back enough that her shoulders are actually resting on the bench-seat behind her, a full, teenaged slouch, the joke of taking up too much space made reality.

"What d'you make of March," She asks him, low. Everything echoes here, from the doors and the ice and the high vaulted ceiling, and that very public noise makes for a strange anonymity. No one could possibly approach or overhear without being seen, "I've got some thoughts, but I want to hear an outside opinion first."