"Alright," She mumbled, mentally grasping for something, anything, she could talk about at length. Telling him stories about school wouldn't work; the disconnect between what he remembered and what she had brought up had helped to trigger this.

Marinette shifted in her seat to allow her to hold onto his hand more easily, and her foot nudged her sketchbook, which was on the floor just next to her seat. It hit her in a flash.

Something simple, mundane, normal. She could do this.

"Your dad is sort of a slave driver," was what she started with, which in retrospect might not have been the best of starts. Oh, well. "Sometimes he comes in here and has me color in patterns with him. I'm not sure if he's actually going to use them or not. Probably not, because they're not very good. But you know - I gotta wonder. Do you think that's his way of charging me rent? He's probably not going to come right out and ask me for money but I have been staying under your roof so you know, billable hours and all..."

She was babbling, but if he just needed to hear a voice to keep him grounded, she'd keep at it.