Sweeney shrugs, but continues to consider her question.

"Not sure it matters all that much." When one's starving out in the woods, anything that isn't ants is a fucking blessing.

"Stag is pretty much a delicacy," he concedes. "Though I'm sure elk would run 'long those lines." He sighs as his focus drifts up to the glass above them.

"Spent most'a the lives I remember lucky fer small game." Surely there was a time before, but it's so hard to find in his mind.