Yes. That was it. The words washed over him comfortingly. The familiar refrain a security blanket a toddler might cling to at night. Soothing because it bridged the gaps in his incomplete memories.
And that lasting about five seconds, long enough for him to take a deep breath, after which, the part of him mind that was filled with the glow of normal, healthy Earth relationships, took back over waving those healthy memories around like warning flags.
"I'm sorry- attachments? What?" He blinked. "Attachments... like, um... what do you mean when you say attachments? Explain that in more detail please? Because that sounds clinical and sterile and, uh, cult-like." He sure looked worried by the end there.