Tim flinches at this, takes it completely personally, and it hurts. It hits him right on the guilt that he's been trying so hard to keep down under a heavy layer of shiny veneer, and the polish is cracking. "Okay, fine. I got 'stabby' - is that what you want? An explanation for why it happened and why it won't happen to you? A guy who had a significant height and weight advantage before we started starving to death, which means that he was in better shape after weeks of poor nutrition, and who had already attacked me came at me again, this time with a cutlass. He was the aggressor, and his weapon had a longer reach so, yes, I fought with what I had and what I had was not what I'm used to working with."

It was a mistake, and he didn't want to make it again. Tim can't say that, though. God only knows who's listening to them. Tim can feel the heat in his face - it's not a blush. It's anger and maybe shame, and the most he can hope for is to be read as angry and proud, so that's what he strives for, jutting his chin out a little. He can be proud. He's better than this place, and that's reason enough.

"I care because I don't like being misjudged. I care because caring about people that don't know me and couldn't give a rat's ass if I died tomorrow is what I've been doing since I was twelve, and I'm damn good at it. I don't need a pet project. I've got three - no, four. I could give you examples, tell you about how I've set up a chain of community centers with built-in shelters for teens, but you're so freaking negative I'm sure you'll tell me that I'm dealing with white man's guilt, or maybe it's because I've never been poor, or maybe because I'm taller than you. And while you're busy being insulted because someone offered help, you're going to miss that nice people don't need sinister ulterior motives."

Tim took a deep breath himself, rubbing at his eyes. "There. Now I really am talking too much. Happy?"