[If only it were a matter of turning it off. Hope's words strike him as an intended jab, but he sees them more curiously than that. After all: what would he be turning off? It's not as if he's thinking sympathetically, coaxed toward that because it comes naturally. His indifference toward so much of the world has been embedded into him. He's not pretending to be callous; in his eyes, he merely is: a wounded and unwanted child.

He can't even meet the clichés coming from her mouth, to be what she would need him to be.

There's so much that he doesn't say. That he doesn't take care to point out. He turns a corner, and then raises a hand for her to stop.]

Sit down. I'll need to work quickly, but we should be unobserved here.

[He wonders, idly, if she thinks she hit a sore spot. If she thinks she hurt him. Most likely she does.]

You aren't as powerless as you might think, nor are you alone. I met your father, and he's more than willing to speak highly of you. [Yes, he's dropping that right before he has to dig a bullet or three out of her.]