She laughed for being accused of always being excited. It was true, and it wasn't the first time she'd been accused of that. It just seemed that she always found something new to discover. Full of life her mother called it.
"Are you kidding?" She asked with a grin of her own then drank about half the glass. "I'm Boston Irish. This is mother's milk to me." Her dad had died of liver failure, and his wake had had almost as much alcohol as he had consumed in his lifetime.
Her mood sobered a little as she let him have the bottle. "I want to know why you are the way you are. You said the Mark of Cain was different. I want to know how and what it did to you."