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Rosi lit a fresh cigarette and stared at its burning tip instead of at the sick kid sleeping huddled at his feet.
He was a kidnapper now. He turned the thought as he turned the cigarette in his fingers, having trouble deciding if that would count as a crime in the circumstances. Kidnapping. Going AWOL— double AWOL— from his duties to the Navy, and the Donquixotes. It didn't matter whether saving Law was just an excuse for him to run away from either, or both.
Law was on a timer counting down until the moment of his death. Rosi was on a timer counting down the days until he'd have to bring the scythe down on brother's head, and any bastard unfortunate enough to be standing near him at the time.
Of their two timers, there was only one that Rosi had any chance of stopping.
What did it mean that it felt simpler— more achievable-– to cure a terminal illness than to halt the unstoppable wheel of Justice?
He told himself that it didn't matter what it meant. He'd do what he could with the time he had.
The cherry of the cigarette smoldered down and burned his fingers.