"Glad that's working for one of us," Dylan mutters, in spite of himself. If Jack has anything to say in response to that, however, it's lost as Dylan abruptly starts to get to his feet. He's spotted Miranda across the room, you see, and he's trying to get her attention. It works, and she drifts over, her brightly colored gypsy skirt swirling around her as she moves.

Stopping in front of them, she looks between Dylan, Jack and back again, slowly, critically, before letting out a breath. She shakes her head. "God, honey, you weren't kidding."

About having adopted a kid. About being sober. About anything he's told her on the phone since they started talking again. And as good as all this is, she's not sure what to do with it. She was sure Dylan's lot in life was to die young, alone, drunk -- not entirely unlike his father, plus or minus. The means to the end might have been a little different, slower, but he was still headed towards suicide, in her opinion.

"Yeah, no," Dylan answers, shaking his head, too. He pauses a beat, that said, then gestures to Jack. "Miranda, Jack. Jack, Miranda Vale."