"Right. Lucky." Something deep inside Jason strains at its chains there, the part where his head always hurts, where the budget's never enough, where his mother's always dipping it to try and put on airs they can't afford and they spent more money on flowers for Quentin's funeral than they ever did on Jason's future, where whenever he goes home it's to the sound of his brother's screaming and weeping - but to flood the conversation with that wouldn't be appropriate. There's a difference between congenial complaining and an outright pity party.

He's not about to do the latter in front of a Reagan, even if it isn't Cyrus.

So there's something knifelike about his next smile, something that Stephen may remember from decades ago when Jason was teenager enough to lord his age over Cyrus and Stephen both.

"But that's a limiting way to look at it, isn't it? No wonder they say you don't have ambition. With your pedigree you could be a Gamemaker if you tried, instead of just shuttling fresh meat around."