Finch leans an elbow on the counter and carefully places his chin in his hand to face the young woman (girl, he's tempted to think) -- carefully, because what would be a casual posture from anyone else is a stiff, awkward thing for him. "Injured?

"I would, yes-- if you don't mind explaining. It might be meaningful, if there's some-- common thread in all this."

He smiles a faint toothache smile at the idea he was doing something important. "Walking my dog. And no, I'm afraid I have no idea.

"He likes to be scratched on his chest."