"Not much," he says, and hates that something bitter and hurt curls around the edge of it, adds boneless, strangling weight to two syllables he meant to be anything but a glimpse of the kind of wound he's been walking around with in silence since those early days of arriving here not KD6-3.7, not a blade runner, not Joe, no one's son.

He clears his throat, tries again. "Just a choice I made. I don't know if I can explain it."