"This is a people shooting hat, I shoot people in this hat."     He’s got the peak in the back- fingers fiddling with a fresh pack of cigarettes he got his hands on earlier. It’s not like anyone he knows is gonna come jumping outta the bushes anyway-  and besides, his hands are shaky. Have they always been this shaky? That’s beside the point, he’s not even looking at her, toor focused on the task at hand. He licks his lips, replacing the pack with the matches  before he raises his eyes to look at her, cigarette sitting between his teeth.

       "No, sir- I know-”    Can’t even ask a simple question before being interrogated. Holden’s eyes study Mr. Hallward for a few more seconds. Artists- now there you had a fidgety subject. If not conceited by their apparent ability to create something “meaningful” - admired and yabbed about by the herds of phonies nodding their heads at every little ‘description of existential dread’ and whatever bull they can pull out of their asses. It’s a goddamn tragedy. He seals his lips, leaning on the doorframe.         “I know. Alright?”

        “  Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake-” He’s not even halfway through his cigarette, eyes avoiding the girl,  she seems swell enough- younger, not by much. For a moment he seems to have forgotten where he was going - brows furrowing. Nevermind that, he takes a pull. “-goddamn.”

                                              “ SLEEP TIGHT, YA MORONS! “