The apple bounces a little higher, a little more threatening; an internalised voice is murmuring at him not to waste food, and he doesn't recall whose it originally was. Long ago, far away, when he was someone else entirely. He feels sick, and twin spots of pink have risen in his face; he's squinting. The kitchen is bright; perhaps he's dazzled.

Why is he standing in the kitchen holding an apple? How did he get here? Why doesn't any of this make sense?

Snatching the apple back into his hand, he glares at A as hard as he can; he'll still throw it, if he has to. "Get out."