Witnessing that memory play out through Daniel's mind is like listening to someone singing in the next room. Muted, fuzzy with recall. The gift isn't always predictable in how much information it provides, simply due to the nature of memory itself. Armand has a subscription to a biomedical science journal, an attempt to keep up with the world and its efforts to replicate that which comes naturally to his kind; he's read articles about memory being stored in cells, in the fingertips and hair follicles, and doesn't think that it's surprising when the fish hook drags into driftwood.

Still, Armand watches him, watches his face. The words don't really matter. He gets the point.

"And when your daughter made her mistakes, when she was getting high in some small, stuffy room off the Oudekerksplein and thinking about how much she wanted to fuck that young man, you felt no compulsion to go after her? To stop her? Imagine what it is like, Mr Molloy, to feel that compulsion and know that there is nothing stopping you from going through with it. To know that if you wanted to, you could have followed her, and reached out and taken that boy's throat in your hand --" He tilts his head, just slightly, and listens to the tidal throb of Daniel's heart in his chest. "And snuffed out his life. And that you could have saved her from the mistakes you made, if only you had done something. Anything."