Ford's not sure what he's kneeling in, exactly. It might be a puddle of rainwater, or an oil spot, or a drink someone decided to dump out their window and onto the pavement. Whatever it is, its soaking through his jeans and making the cold, gritty feeling of the concrete beneath his knee all the more unpleasant. He focuses on that feeling instead of the words coming out of his brother's mouth, thinks about how he's probably going to have to use some lemon juice and baking soda (or was it vinegar?) to get rid of the stain he's undoubtedly going to be left with.

He thinks about that instead of Russia and Columbia and the waver in his brother's voice, because if he thinks about any of those things for too long he might just lose what little composure he's got left. One of them has to be the designated Adult here, at least one of them has to have their shit together and make sure this clusterfuck of a situation gets resolved somehow, and Ford's not about to foist that responsibility off on Stan. Between the two of them, at least he's not high off his ass and in the process of staving off what appears to be one spectacular emotional breakdown just waiting to happen.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything, Stanley." His voice sounds a little tighter than he'd like, but at least it doesn't waver. "You know I'm not."

He pauses, swallowing hard despite how dry his mouth feels.

"We grew up inside a pawn shop. I think you know what a sales pitch sounds like."