Beside him, Ralston's hmm is a mild thing. Another segment of orange comes free in his hands with a spit of sweet smelling citrus juice. The pale flesh of the orange has left behind some viscera under his nails.

"I have not," he says. And then, with a sharp toothed smile and dark eyes lacking in humor, he adds— "It seems I've become something of a realist who has trouble imagining himself elsewhere."

That isn't true. That much is obvious; maybe that place frightens him. Or maybe Ralston had done something there in the throes of memory loss that he is now ashamed of. Or, or, or. Who can say.

"And yourself?"