Harry blinks up at the light like a deer in the road. His new bedazzled shirt throws little flecks of purple light, a shirt-shaped disco ball. The ruin becomes a shifting purple galaxy as he attempts to see the man on the other side of that beam.

(The laughter is genuine.)

(You can't be the first to come looking for information in the bones of the past.)

"I won't." He struggles into the too-small shirt, which rides up his arms and shows a pale strip of beer belly. (You should change back before he realizes you look fat.) (No. Commit. You look sturdy and masculine.) (Stay focused.)

It's a good shirt. Harry commits. He flexes just to make the purple flecks on the walls jump and spin.

"The real crime would be letting this shirt go to waste."