Well now, that reaction is hard to miss. It's a reaction he's too familiar with, but generally it comes from those who've had brushes with the business end of his claws, not a pale, scrawny boy with an unfortunate haircut. His nostrils flare like he'll be able to smell this kid's fear, to peel from him some scrap of extra info he can't figure by sight alone. It's a habit that hasn't died yet, useless now. Logan can't smell anything beyond the trees, the sweltering heat in the thick air, and his own sweat.

Curious now, he waits to say anything while the boy composes himself, eyes narrowed. Getting 'sir'd earns a quirk of one brow, and that question makes him snort.

Logan settles down properly, drying his hands on his dark overalls.

"Yeah." A hair sharp, like he's insulted by the question. He continues, more mild, "Not much anymore. Not like that-" and he nods at Frankenstein.

"Do I know you or something, kid?"