Sam has the distinct feeling he should be guilty about that, about not recognizing this woman claiming to be his friend. And he is a little bit. There's still a part of him buried beneath all the self-hate and resignation that recognizes the feelings of others.

But it's nothing like it used to be.

He doesn't even know what he is any more: man or monster. So maybe it's just inevitable.

His gaze drops to her empty glass and he wipes a hand with his towel again and gives her a quick, short nod. "You want another one?"