He holds his hands up when she talks about the job, maybe because he doesn't want her to think that he's presuming anything out of nowhere, since that'd just be rude. "What kind of job did you have?" he asks, trying to keep things on the upbeat and the positive, not wanting to get washed away in the hopelessness he always feels at the edge of things here, like it's just waiting and wanting to yank him down into the abyss.

He's got a lot of dark, weird imaginative thoughts for a guy who's spent his most recent years canning, but then, maybe after you fight in a war, you're going to end up with a couple of bad apples in your noggin. "Where'd you live?" he asks, all of a sudden, because he doesn't remember asking that, either.