She's not used to people asking, which is what that moment of pause is about this time. There's a shrug of her narrow shoulders, though (Lyla is very thin both by design and lifestyle; this is what happens when your idea of breakfast is a bag of skittles, cigarettes, and diet coke). She's not sure what she makes of this line of questioning, besides, perhaps, simply wanting to know one's colleagues. Her instincts don't tell her anything bad, but she is wary out of habit and nature both.

It's still weird to Lyla that she has colleagues, that she's a part of anything approximating an organization with people who sleep in beds and don't carry razorblades under their tongues.

"Go ahead," she says. "And yeah, it's kinda my thing...well, I mean, can you imagine most folks around here trying to fit in around the Spatters?"

Never let it be said the girl isn't aware of how she comes across.

"I have friends there. People act like the Spatters ain't a real part of the city, but everybody who lives down there knows more about Baedal than anywhere else."