"The original plan was to tell you that you're the winner of tonight's setting-yourself-up-to-get-shivved-in-the-kidney lotto..."

The boy moves from where he's crouched on the ground to sitting on a nearby rock -- perching, in how he sits indian-style on the very edge, is probably a more appropriate term for it, really -- and shrugs, nonchalant.

"But the heinous lack of an ill beat trumps that. Makes my blood run cold. It's pretty much a biological imperative that we take a moment to drop it like it's hot."

He brings his hands up to his mouth to drop a quick beat, then stops in order to wait for her to start singing so he can pick it back up again.