The words arrive sluggishly; it takes altogether too long to string together what is being said, and what they ought to say in turn. A low, ponderous blink droops their heavy lids, as though they might start drowsing at any moment. It's like cleaving through water - no. Not water. Like something denser.

Like mud. Whatever's just been said tumbles end over end until finally they seize upon something that sounds close - close enough to what has just been said. Until it creeps out in a slow mumble.

"...Ford?"