Maybe it'll help him forget the shadows that have begun to creep in on the very distant sides of his memory, either that or pick out something light, something to help.

It takes a while for her words to reach him, like a verbal telegraph. He doesn't notice the grip he's got on the glass is unusually white-knuckled.

"Buckwheat...? I don't know 'bout that. Well, the Mr. can stay. I am your elder, after all. One who aged really well."

And maybe he flashes a ghost of a half-cocked grin he proudly worn in 1939. More progress, even if he's lame as hell.