Depending on the strength of her interest in the brick shithouse currently sipping coffee across from her, Caedra may find herself unfathomably disappointed that Nate would rather fall off another train in the Himalayas with a gunshot wound to the stomach than cheat on his wife. He isn't so lacking in self-awareness as to not notice her less-than-subtle glances, though - if he leans on it to glean information, then it's worth the risk.

Also, he's still a little drunk, so, you know. His judgment isn't great.

"Sort of. But it's distilled from sugarcane juice, instead of molasses. They call it cachaça."

A drink on par with ouzo in terms of being the alcoholic kiss of death. Nate has never known other beverages to slam an unsuspecting imbiber harder.

"I kind of grew up with it in Colombia, though I'm...not sure you know where that is."