*completely misses every word out of your mouth, at first, as his vision tunnels to the image of his little aunt, huddled in a chair with a dishrag stuffed into her mouth, at the sights-end of a gun—your gun, and now you have his attention*
*draws in a slow breath, numb to everything but a clear, cold calm (allowing for bacon, that's what's burned and tonight I'm going to kill a man)* Joe. What are you doing here.