( It seems, for a moment, as if he might be tempted to rip his hair out, to stomp. Hair cradling the sides of his head, digging it, never quite gripping, then letting go. His hands slip at his side, umbrella neatly knocked down, forgotten. )

I don't know what you're talking about. ( He does not stomp, but his leg trembles, threatens to. ) You're all coming to me and... and... and talking riddles. I didn't go to school that long, I don't know riddles. I'm sorry. And you're... you're too sick to talk to, anyway. You should go.