Ford takes the can offered to him out of reflex moreso than any actual desire to eat its contents. He's too distracted by the little conversational hiccup that just took place to really remember if he's hungry or not.

"Fiddleford." He supplies the name readily, albeit in a quiet, almost somber tone.

"He's a buddy of mine from college. He was helping me with my research, working with me on a project, but, ah..."

He's not sure what to say here. Does he tell Stan how things fell apart, and why? Does he dare tell him what the project even was? He's not sure. It doesn't seem like something he ought to be sharing, at least not quite yet. He's already thrown a lot at Stan today, and the man's hardly been in his house for fifteen minutes. It would probably be a bad idea to tell him too much too soon. He doesn't want to overwhelm the poor man and make him think he's crazier than he probably already does.

"...I haven't really spoken with him since it fell through."