There's just been so many shocks in Harold's life by now, so many metaphorical bombs of various magnitudes, that he's started to take them with equanimity. Or maybe that's the complex PTSD and trauma speaking. Regardless, he won't insist someone else air out their emotions for his consumption. He certainly never offers to do that.

Loss is private, and to be respected, and Harold would never presume that someone else should share it with him.

"I agree," he muses, finding this topic far preferable to the absurdity of adult summer camp. "Have you been tracking disappearances and reappearances? I'm not sure we can extrapolate much from such a small sample size, but it's anecdotally interesting."

He pauses, considers his next words. Something like empathy lines his tone despite the utterly practical nature of what he says. Empathy can be offered subtly, without demand.

"I'm cooperative because accruing mission points means accruing resources, but I am not credulous about our ostensible purpose."