Booker hadn't spent these centuries alone. He had his family but they didn't really live with people. They bounced from place to place and only split up every now and then. It was rare they spent so much time apart. Now, Booker had one hundred years.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. He understood that weariness. It had pushed him down and down and down even with his friends. He couldn't imagine thousands of years alone. That would drive people insane. Marcus thought he was alone so... maybe there was some sense to living with people.

That sense of loneliness and guilt twisted in his stomach. "I'll probably take care of the bastards you wanted dead." And stay in Chicago a little while longer.