The other is never silent. Never. Crawford would bet Schuldig couldn't be silent, inside or out - without a blow to the head - for ten minutes. He glances to the passenger side as he drives and sees Schuldig's mouth moving. Again. Always. As usual.
A ghostly reflection flits across the window as he looks to the road and suddenly he's remembering a silent, sullen, red-head.
Further back than he's thought in years.
He'd seen the recaptured escapee brought in from the streets.
He looks again, memory overlaying the modern; the ghost's mouth firmly closed, Schuldig's swearing, laughing, never stilling.