[Nothing here is familiar, even if he can't possibly say why. Despite that, something eases at the back of Darlington's mind, some lost memory or sense of nostalgia, maybe, at the sight of the Stardust's cracked leather booths and gleaming counters, the music filling the air as much as the grease from the griddle in the kitchen just beyond. It might not matter, but he clings as much as he can to the vague feeling anyway as he sits at the counter.

He doesn't pay attention when the door opens again, but the subsequent scoff has him looking over at his interrogator, fork held in one hand.]

I've already spent ten minutes trying to understand how I have a conceptual understanding of an apple pie, in the absence of...almost all else. Of course I'm going to eat it.

[A sudden urge has him nudging the plate just so slightly closer to the other young man.]

We could probably ask for another fork.