It's clear by the darting glances from the coat to the street and back to the screen that he still doesn't entirely trust the words, but he nods solemnly anyway. If it becomes a problem it isn't his fault; he was told it was okay. 'Finders keepers,' and while he is reluctant to trust a man who relies on things kids say (he can't help but think he only said it because he's a kid, and he's never liked being talked down to), it's still true. "Okay."

Scooting back from the screen, close enough to watch it but far enough away that he has the illusion of privacy, he starts digging through the pockets. There isn't much there, mostly lint and strange pieces of twisted metal and sugar cubes which he doesn't feel right eating. The book is more interesting, and he flips through it carefully, stopping periodically to read a passage or two. It doesn't make much sense to him, it's half mystery story and half nonsense, but he picks up on the fact that it's a diary of some kind. He knows he should probably mention it, in case it means something to the man on the screen, if only so the person it belongs to can get it back, but he doesn't. Instead he tucks it under his feet for safekeeping.

He'd had the question ready earlier, but now seems the better time to ask it. "Do you know how I got here?"