"He's a funny one," John agrees, and there's a knowing edge to it, like this is a joke. He could get the skeleton in the closet up and walking around and it'd be about as much of a person as the receptionist, he's pretty sure. Some corner of his head says construct. "I'm not convinced the numbers are arranged in any pattern humans can comprehend. You want company?"

He wasn't doing anything much, and there are few distractions like a brand-new arrival. You know it's bad when John feels like he has a grip on things by comparison.