Bill's head swam. The cop was still right up in his face, hand vice-like around his jaw, preventing him from looking away. He felt like they'd veered into another language, some kind of code or double-speak the man expected him to understand.
He met the man's stare, scrabbling back through his pocked memory for some place it might fit, something that might explain the peculiar familiarity in the cop's voice, and grasping nothing. That infuriating thrum at the back of his mind had returned, and for a delirious second Bill half-imagined there was a melody to it, like one of those ye olde ballads.
Motherfuck, this was not the time to come apart.
"Fo-- forty-five," he sputtered around the cop's gripping fingers. "'m forty-five."