"No not pesto. Like strawberry and-" And now it hits him and he doesn't want to talk about his dead children's favourite flavours of froyos and ice creams. His expression falters and he just kind of leaves it at that. "and s- stuff."

His eyes flicker from left to right and quietly he's thankful for the change in subject.

"Funny. I was thinkin' the same thing." Except you know, a bit more Americana style with guns and speeches, dirt in his mouth and his shoes, desert sun throwing green and blind spots across his eyes. He didn't fight and lose his brothers in wars to win censorship and purity for his home turf.