Ples pursed his lips and let air escape through his nose very slowly. He nodded.
Yes. This is so.
He stopped. The clocks ticked. Ples coughed. Did he really want to reveal this? No, no, of course not. He skimmed over the real meat of his story - the story of how he, an Englishman, had come to live in New Jersey and how he was divested of most of his human parts.
I think what might help is…i-i-if we found out what h-happened? I know it would have helped me to have a l-little bit of closure. We could do some research?
He wasn’t sure if any of this was of any comfort to the Prince. But, from his own standpoint, the thing that bothered Ples the most about his whole…immigration was he never knew what happened to his parents.
The idea sounded silly at first, grownups only thought it important to record different people, not foxes or snakes; but slowly, the intended thought grew into the prince’s head. Could he possibly be able to find out what had happened to his pilot? He wondered what sort of facts they could discover on him…but then…he formed the question 'Is he alive?' and the small shred of enthusiasm lost its fire.
He did not want to find out. Not yet at least. For now, the prince felt emotionally drained, he feared hurting his heart anymore if he were to soon discovered a tragic fate of his good friend.
With a low sigh, and a dull whisper, he turned down the offer—
"Not now…another time…"
He wished for a sunset, as many sunsets as he wanted, but earth could only deliver in such a long amount of time. So instead, he fell in to another source of temporary comfort. He wasn’t confident it would be very helpful, though…
"I’m tired, Ples. I can not stop thinking of very sad things."
Oh dear. Ples wasn’t always so good at cheering people up. But…maybe…it would be nice if the Prince knew something. Something that would make him feel…not so alone. He sighed.
I don’t know th-that this will help, but, p-perhaps…
He licked his lips, swallowed.
Perhaps…I’ll. I sh-sh-should tell you…I know how you feel.