(That had been a funny confrontation, and one of his favourite to date. He knew that there was talk across the camp about the fact that he didn't drink, smoke or chase skirts. It was all harmless, even then he had somehow garnered a decent amount of respect that he wasn't quite sure he deserved considering how little he had done, but he appreciated nonetheless. He'd been asked if he had anything, and honestly, all there was was ice-cream. It was something he craved, desired, and considered himself something of an ice cream snob, even, though in desperate times he would take whatever he could get. They had laughed and said it didn't count as a vice, but it was the only one for him.)

It doesn't need sprinkles. Maybe a nice, thick hot fudge, that's always good, but I'm just as happy with a scoop of pure vanilla as I am some crazy sundae. (The thought makes him smile fondly, as if he already has the first spoon of it on his tongue, and he's feeling more eager now about the dinner.)

We'll have pizza, then. Pizza and ice cream. I think it's called gelato in Italy, I read that somewhere. Maybe if we jump into Italy we can get some there, too.