'Tis good for ye. So's that mash," he says, pointing to a wee pile of white stuff with bits of dark stuff in, here and there. "Bacon in the taties, that. My da used ta fry up that sort of thing after dark and we'd have our dinner. Sometimes, he'd find a chicken--ever plucked a chicken? Those bastards dinnae want t'let go of their feathers, and who can blame 'em? We'd fight if some huge hand came down and started pullin' the hair out of our heads." Swann stopped stirring and licked the end of his fork. "But I'm glad yer feelin' better. Ye looked like burned shite."