"Never did care," he said. That was the blessing and the curse he bore, though he never saw it as anything but fact. He didn't care. Nobody mattered to him. No fear touched him. No emotion but white-hot rage could penetrate through to him. Anger was all he knew, and Sparrow Peterson was good at anger.
He shrugged. "Don't remember. Owed a lot of people a lot of things back then." He tapped his own head again. "Took a few too many hits in the ring. Forget a thing or two." This was fabricated, but it would lay a groundwork if he needed it, a fake weakness that someone might think they could exploit. Always thinking ahead.
"Oh, right. Timing. Important." He straightened, arching his back slightly to stretch it, and then settled back.