“Your touch isn’t discomforting. Merely” — Connor calculates his next words as he allows Glenn to guide him — “I am unused to such treatment.”

Hank had put his gun to Connor’s head, once: that was touch. Dying in Hank’s arms at Stratford Tower: that too was touch.

Touch is loss; harm; pain. Gavin punching his torso, aiming for his thirium pump — seeking to hurt. Punish. Torment.

“I have not been... awake for very long,” Connor says. Unsure whether to describe deviancy; whether it might make sense or muddle the conversation further. “I was not made with such preferences. I’m learning them now.”

The seat isn’t unpleasant. If anything, there is a certain comfort in it: a surface to help prop him up so he can focus on acclimating his visual sensors to the other dim shapes in the room.

“In a way, we’ll have to write the rulebook together. But thank you for your consideration. This is a good start. I didn’t want to be alone.”