[He's sheepish again at how startled she looks. Well, he could just be teasing, after all. The bench isn't a long walk - it's one of the good ones, nice view but out of the way of the fountain's spray, and he lets her sit down before picking the opposite corner. His coffee cup balances precariously on a curved wooden slat.]

I've never had to tell anyone this.

[He admits, first. Your baby died; fine. You're not in Kansas anymore? Harder, and more cliche.]

Everything else I say to you will be the truth. But I lied about showing you the way home. You get out the same way that you came.