"Yeah. That kind of hurt." Howard guesses. It's hard to pin much together from R's response, except that it was something real enough to break the mask of what Howard supposes is rigor mortis.

Eating is simple. Howard can appreciate that. And if R wants to eat with his hands, it actually offers Howard a little respite in that he can do the same, rather than forcing himself through the paces of proper table manners. Howard takes pieces of hash browns with his fingers, swallows a link of sausage whole, downs his glass of orange juice in one gulp, drinks syrup straight from the dispenser.

It's easy, to lose yourself in food, in the security it brings. To remind himself he's not in the FAYZ, not in the Arena, not starving, not sick, not bleeding. The flavors blot out the people in the periphery regarding them both with disgusted fascination.

And while he eats he consider what R said, the expression on his face, something that was almost like a cringe instead of the unfocused, startled expression settled into R's features.

"Do you think it's easier, being dead?" he asks after he's polished off his plate and is circling things with his fingertip on the dessert menu.