Well ain't that great. [It's dry and sarcastic, and a bit deadpan. And it's not her fault, but something clicks in Booker that resembles frustration towards his situation. His confusion twists into a clear frown.]

What am I supposed to do then? Like I said, I'm not even supposed to be here. Unless this is some surreal afterlife, I'm pretty certain that I'm not even supposed to be alive.

[That had been part of the plan, back then, in the river. That was where the twisted version of himself had been born, and it was there he would kill him.]