"Normal," he answers, managing to make it sound like a question as he drops his items on he counter and goes back to find butter for the pan. He'd seen a man cooking with oil earlier in the week, but he thinks it's one of those box items--guy had taken it with him when he left. "I was home in the mountains, it was 2001, the sun went the right way and nobody talked too much about space exploring or smoke monsters."

Everyone's home is their idea of normal, but there's nothing on his side to make sense of this place. Nothing but the problems in his own head, and he doesn't think he could make up all these people. "I just don't see a point in getting worked up. It's like a test when you don't know the answer: I just skip it. I just make some food, walk through some trees, and I don't think about the shit I can't change."