Davenport sips the tea, winces, and puts it down on a crate.
There are footsteps outside, and Liv pokes her head into the storeroom. "There you are! Why on earth are you sitting with the boxes?"
"The children are everywhere else," points out Davenport. He has great respect for Liv's work, hugely noble and self-sacrificial, saved hundreds of lives - but he'll be damned if he lets another nine-year-old punch him in the gut and call him a motherfucking sonofabitch, apocalypse orphan or not.
Liv shuts the door quietly and perches on a supply crate opposite him. "Tea?" offers Davenport.
"Thanks." Liv drinks some. "It's not that bad, you know."
"It lacks body."
"Oh, give Zac a break," laughs Liv, "he's from California, not Carlisle. In any case he's a wonder with the kids."
Davenport is well-aware of that. From where he's sitting he can see out of the tiny storeroom window, which looks out onto the orphanage compound. Zachary is entertaining a small crowd of children by teaching them one of his myriad dances. This one looks like the Stabbed Chicken.
"I don't know what Johnny was thinking," sighs Davenport. "Look at him. Boy couldn't crush a snail."
"Don't you lecture me on the innocence of youth," retorts Liv. "I could write encyclopaedias on the subject. What you know could barely fill a rations card. In any case, your so-called boy is over twenty - not to mention he made it to Johnny's ranch alive, which I believe most espionage training programmes would accept as an actual qualification."
"Me, then," says Davenport. "I don't do teaching. I can't teach."
Liv leans over and touches his wrist. "I have faith in you, Jack."
"You have faith in everyone, that's why this place is still standing." Davenport smiles at her. "But thank you."