Mickey (on the phone): So, I saw the baby fire in the news.
Tommy: Jesus Christ. The baby fire? They're still callin' it the baby fire, I guess. You know, why don't they call it the '16 appliances plugged into one wall socket fire', how about that, huh?
Mickey: Yeah, I know, Tom. I'm just sayin' what they're sayin.
Tommy: Or how about 'God doesn't really give a shit about poor black kid's fire', how about that name, huh? It's unbelievible to me, it really is. What was God thinkin' here, Mick? What do you think? What did he have in mind?
Mickey: We don't know. Maybe he was showin' his mercy, maybe he was savin' these kids from a fate far worse down the line somewhere. Either way, it's out of our hands.
Tommy: Well, lemme tell 'ya somethin', okay? We carried those goddamn kids out in our goddamn hands because their moron parents plugged in faulty space heaters because they were tryin' to keep warm, 'cause their shit-ass landlords were too cheap to keep the goddamn heat on. God had nothin' to do with it, okay? God doesn't even venture into the equation, okay? But according to your theory, I guess God had Connor run over by a drunk driver, why? So he can spare him the fate, of maybe having cancer of the ass when he was 42 years old? Is that what's goin' on, Mick?
Mickey: Or maybe because of his DNA he becomes a raging alcoholic and gets behind the wheel with a load on and runs over somebody else's innocent kid 15 years from now. Maybe that's what's happenin'. Did you ever think of that, huh? Tom? ... Tom?
Tommy: Yeah. Nobody knows nothin', Mick. Not until it happens.
Mickey: You're wrong. Everything happens for a reason.