Now that doesn't feel familiar. The joys of having one's formative memories back in the 1920s and 1930s (and then wiped again and again and again until there's only vague impressions left). Being left along to do what one wants should be great, but at the same time it seems kind of lonely. (Because murder machines need company? Maybe it's the lack of orders? But he is still sitting here, now, when he could have been gone ages ago. Christ, he has no idea.)

He is also once again at a loss for how to answer, though. There's a long pause, punctuated mostly by kitten growls, before he comes up with, "Not a lot of family?" Since she'd said it was a holiday for family and friends, and she was left alone a lot. (That might be prying. It might be sad. Shit, now he wishes he didn't say it.)