It's not that I don't care about anything besides my job -- it's that the job doesn't let you leave. You see death and misery and suffering, and you don't just click that off when you go home; it doesn't wash off in the shower or vanish with a lover's embrace. You are polluted, toxic, and so you hold back so you don't infect someone else with the poison. You keep part of yourself segregated, hidden.
It's a shrike," I say. "A small bird, yes. No large talons, no great wingspan. Not what you'd think of as a bird of prey. You're right it looks harmless. But guess how it kills its food?"
"Too bad you realized it after you tossed me this gun. Life's a game of inches, isn't it? If it had come to you just a few seconds earlier, I wouldn't be holding this gun. That's gotta sting."