There's a dinky diner not far from the cemetery, and I convince Andrew to stop there. It's a popular little breakfast nook for the older population of Blue Mountain, and not trendy enough for the younger crowd.
The booths are covered in cracked vinyl and there's a persistent smell of bacon grease, the kind where it's so seeped into the walls and tables this place would probably have to be burned down in order to be anything other than a greasy little diner.
Andrew sits across from me, fidgeting with a sugar packet as he keeps staring at my face.
He's worried. I get it; I'm acting weird. But every time I try to tell him what happened, there's only silence. My mouth won't even open.
It's as if the App's put out a gag order on the rollback, which is beyond frustrating.
"You want to tell me what happened back there?" he asks.
