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How's that daughter of yours, Welch?

You do have a daughter, right?

You seem like the kind of guy who has a daughter.

I bet she's

a real sweet peach, that daughter of yours. The sound of Flynn's buzzing, whining voice made

sweet fantasies dance through my head. Fantasies in which I gutted him and shoved his own intestines

down his throat to shut him up once and for all. I could picture the look on his face, his buggy, colorless eyes as wide as exit wounds.

His sharp, yet somehow bulbous face smeared with blood as I forced the intestines past his half-rottent teeth and down his wretched throat.

But, of course, I'm a nice guy, so I would never do such a thing to a fellow human.

That's what I've come to learn about myself during my time with the foundation.

I'm a nice guy. I never realized it before, but only because I never had anyone truly evil to compare myself against.

The people who run the foundation are the kind of evil you hear about only in fiction.

But I tell you, it's real, and I've experienced it firsthand.

How old is she? Flynn kept buzzing, as he followed Welch down the cold and windowless hall.

It went Flynn, Sosa, and me bringing up the rear. All three of us in orange jumpsuits,

all three of us with chains attached to shackles around our wrists and ankles.

...