Hemingway felt himself relax slightly when she changed her approach, the tension he was holding onto starting to ease off. He didn't believe that it would make sense soon. His head was spinning. "It's completely insane," he muttered, leaning his forehead on his hands for a moment, as if trying to piece his fried brain back together.
"A telephone?!" he repeated incredulously, his face an absolute picture as he examined the little device she was presenting him with. At least it was keeping his attention, stopping him from spiralling into a sort of panic for now. "What the hell? How can it play music?" he queried, only able to imagine huge, heavy records spinning, unless she meant the radio. How could something so small do so much?
And photographs? His eyes grew wide as she pulled one up - not only was it him older, but- "It's- it's- colour?" he stuttered slightly, amazed at how lifelike it appeared on the little screen.
For his own part, Older Hemingway was trying to convince a three year-old that he really did need to put on his shoes and jacket, and that it wasn't totally necessary to bring a toy friend. The whole toy box had been emptied as Charlie selected his day's companion. He eventually settled on an orange cat. Hemingway wrapped his own jacket around Charlie's shoulders and decided to just carry him out the apartment, shoes in hand for when he inevitably insisted on being put down again.