This time I take Sweeney's hand because it's not really about standing. I grasp his wrist with my hand and pull myself up and everything about the grip speaks of being equal. We've gotten a very good measure of one another, not just in how we fight but in how we respond to tiny, blackhearted men who think they're so much bigger and better.

"My faction would've liked you," I observe. "You, I mean." To clarify, I point at Sweeney. "Him, not so much."

Still grasping his arm, I slip my hand down so that we're hand in hand and I shake it. "Good match."