He was noticing how much lighter that jug was. And regretting all of his choices.

"Christ on a fucking cracker, girl, you're gonna be the death of me." He grabbed a handy chamber pot -- a clean one, you're welcome, Kathy -- and lunged forward to get it in front of her before she befouled his nice clean office floor. Sol would have his head.

When did he decide he knew Sol well enough to know that?

"It's whisky. Probably."

It was basically fucking moonshine. Let's be real.