He takes a long drag, holding it as he speaks.

"Better than Hell." Sweeney flicks the remaining embers out into the greenhouse, not mindful of where they fall. The breath escapes him.

"Or just not bein'."

His knees drawn up, he rests his elbows over them, his arms crossed. His fingers flex for only a moment before the amber whiskey bottle appears between them, grasped by the neck. There's no flashiness to the manifestation; it's like he does it more on instinct. His other hand shifts to open the bottle.