"Microwave," he repeats. He will forget again soon, because he never uses the thing. He possibly blew it up himself once by leaving a spoon in a mug. He will remember the arcing lightning, at least.

He joins her at the counter to inspect what she's found. Canned food is preserved, to his knowledge, but he has never been certain of how long. He sorts through them and decides:

"I will starve before I eat this."

Canned ravioli. Not Italian at all.