He takes another drag from his cigarette, largely as an excuse not to speak for a moment or two. Holds it in, breathes it out slowly, lets the breeze carry it right out of the window.

"In some ways, I think. Fewer than you imagine."

He smiles like him. He stands (and drapes and leans) like him. He pokes and pries at the things that hurt, and sees right through him, like he always has.

"But we'll see, I suppose."