Deflating a little, his mouth twists into an oh well kind of frown. She offers to get him something else, and he's suddenly self-consciously tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, making sure they haven't ridden up his forearms.

He hasn't shot up in a while. Or at least, he doesn't think he has. He can't remember. He only remembers that he does it to leave everything behind.

"What'd you bring for lunch?" he asks instead.