He drinks it in, using her words to better envision it--it's easy to picture someone who looks so classy, even with scrubs and the same identical coat that everyone else has, in sunny Los Angeles. Maybe in a flapper dress, at some speakeasy. An elegant one, though. Like the whispers he hears in New York.

The observatory--that's where he'd like to go, he decides. It's not like he can go out now, but if they ever go back, it's something he can set his sights on. Maybe by the time they do return, he won't be wanted. Maybe he will have dealt with what's inside him. It would be easy, they think he's dead anyway.

"I like Rudolph Valentino," He confesses, as if somehow liking an actor makes him seem like he's a bad person.