[Unfortunately, Jamil doesn't have an immediate answer for that, so he eats another fig. Then a second one. Then he can't stall any longer the admission that he doesn't have any ideas either. He rubs his eyes in resignation; he absolutely can't sleep, but he can tell whatever rides the bicycle in the little electric sand machine in his brain is running out of steam.]

I don't know. I don't actually know anything about them. I mean, do we have to worry about them trying to kill you for this?

[Listen. Always consider the worst-case scenario.]