Well, then. He taps the grinder lightly on the counter—Sojiro's grinder, in spirit or not, that he would give Goro a salary for if he broke it just so he could take it away again—resisting the urge to throw it at the window.

He wants to pull down every jar from the shelves behind him and hear them smash, and then smash the pieces. He wants to run to the Velvet Room and shake Igor, call Lancelot and hurl Mudoons and Hamaons until he gets sent home, and then run to his mother, find her, apologise, never let go, never—

"Well, then," he says, vaguely, looking around for the filter papers. He knew, but he didn't know.