"S'a'right." He looked off, then picked up his little shell, looking down at it. "I could stay 'ere. Live right 'ere, under this thing. Figure out some way o' livin'." It was the thoughts an eight year old would have; the notion of living like Robinson Crusoe, or Peter Pan, or whatever; childish thoughts. Even he knew they were. He just forgot, all too often, that he was only ten years removed from that and not far older. "I dinna wanna leave."