"Fuck." Johnny shakes his head, digesting this. "That's messed up."

He hesitates, sort of a respectful silence, before returning to his sketchwork. Starting to take shape now, an imperfect circle with a thick bird's nest of lines running around the rim, little branches crossing out of it in the four cardinal directions. In its center he begins to draw a symbol, abstract, vaguely spiritual iconography. A sigil, or a ward. Protection, he thinks.

If Gabe ever comes back, he'd like to put it on his back, small but prominent, right over his left shoulder.

"I'm glad he helped you," he murmurs as he works. "He's one of the good guys."

He means this exactly as colloquially as it sounds, as well as its more symbolic, archetypal dual meaning.