All right. So something is up with CT. York's poker face is infamously shit, and worse when he doesn't have the realtime pattern-puzzle of poker to bury his mind away from his facial muscles.

"Damn." He rolls the thought of pushing that tell around in his mind, then nudges it into a corner for later. There's something more important - something he's mostly not trying to think of for Theta's sake, because even a passing thought of it brings a childish jitter of terror echoing back. ". . . and what about Maine."