“I liked being chosen,” Neal admits softly. “What you did was wrong—to the people you hurt, the ones who didn’t choose it. But I liked that you picked me.”

A glimpse for a glimpse. “I’m glad though, to… be able to eat still.
Sorry if that’s… rude? Culturally insensitive?” Who even knows. He gestures at the fake skyline then looks at Lestat again. “It’s part of how I understand the world, how I… feel like I’m in it. Cooking, learning to make food. I don’t think I knew that until I couldn’t do it. Or I guess until the results didn’t really matter to me.”