"Wildflowers," he repeats with mild awe. Any flowers at all-- real ones, not silk or paper-- are a wonder. Maybe he'll push back his plan to find a comfortable home and lock himself in it, for wildflowers.

In the meantime he pops a piece of torn pastry in his mouth and has another moment over it; ah, resplendent, magnificent, fruity and delicious--

"I can't say I mind very much at the moment, admittedly," he says, with a shrug. "Eat fruits or waste away on nutrient patties? The choice is obvious."