Holloway reached out with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. He didn't take the bag. He just touched the leather with the tip of his finger, as if expecting it to be hot to the touch.
He didn't wait for a reply. He pushed through the screen door, letting it slap twice against the frame. Outside, the air smelled of ozone, wet iron, and diesel. Miller popped the collar of his jacket and walked out into the deluge, leaving the old man alone with a pouch of dirty cash and a garage full of dead men's tools. [S2E6] Hold What You Got
"To the bank. To the state. To whoever's buying up the bottom half of this county this week. Does it matter?" Holloway reached out with a trembling, liver-spotted hand
"We used to have roads that didn't have cameras every two miles," Miller snapped. He stood up, the chair legs scraping hard against the concrete floor. He went to the door and looked out at the dark, falling rain. "The world got small, Holloway. There ain't no more running room. You hold onto the square inch you're standing on, or you get pushed into the ditch. That's the only deal left on the board." He didn't wait for a reply
"He didn't leave," Miller corrected him. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound pouch. He didn’t open it. He just set it on the ledger with a dull thud . "He just got traded."