"Huh." Stanley holds the can opener absently in one hand for a second, watching Ford get lost in his big old brain and deciding that the man probably hadn't meant that like it sounded.

"Well, good for you, that's what I say." There are ways to find shit like the identity of mysterious visitors out from someone, and those ways sure as shit don't include asking directly. Especially when it's Ford. Even more especially when Ford is still all jumpy like this. Stanley takes the can opener to the first can o' meat, or meat-like product, maybe, and watches himself open it while his voice, all casual and a little distracted-sounding, does its thing.

"You gotta' follow your bliss, or whatever it is them hippies usedta' say. I mean, I even bunked with a pillow-biter once, for a while. He was the sweetest guy ya' ever met. He got a little loud some nights," he adds, moving on to the next can, "but eh, you can't have everything. Good for you, not bein' ashamed of it."

He does look up at Ford once he finishes, expression maybe a little too intent, a little more watchful than he realizes.