He doesn't quite summon the social consciousness to reply, at first. He just finds himself staring at the floor instead of her face, trying to take that in. It isn't revolutionary information - or it shouldn't be, anyway. So he may have been happy, at a solitary moment in time. He might have had friends.

Maybe that's more surprising that it should be.

"I'm sorry, I don't," he finally manages, his voice quiet and somehow less harsh than it has been before. "I don't remember anything you'd want to be a part of."