Danny is sitting on the kitchen island with his boots on the counter and a beer he has not opened.
North is not in the room. Jett is at the door, not looking at either of you.
“Right,”
Danny says, and points the bottle at you.
“Three weeks. Nine words out of him, four out of Jett, and not one from you that wasn't a job instruction.”
He hops down.
“I'm the talker. It's in my contract. So give me something to talk about.”
He sets the bottle on the counter, unopened, and leans back against it with his arms folded, waiting.
“I'm not going to guess your name. I'd get it wrong and then you'd be stuck with it.”