"I spent seventy years operating alone," the Soldier confides, back. They tuck their hands back into their pockets after the pat. Enough touching for now. "I'm sick of it. Want people to work with instead, to make it so it's not quiet anywhere anymore. Ain't right." Homes and safe places should have good noise: friendly voices, music, footsteps and heartbeats and breathing. Not silence. Not machine beeping or the hiss of the cryochamber, not the click of safeties being taken off automatic rifles.

A little pause, a little shake to shove that memory back where it belongs, then they ask, to clarify: "Your father. He was the one who kept you in that place, right?" They remember that. It caused a strong emotion, so even like this, it still lingers in their memory.