A sigh of frustration, and Barrow rubs a hand down his face-- all of these actions make perfect sense in isolation, but leave it to Lazar to be a little bug crawling around where he can't see it, getting into everything.

"Dead folks were folks," he grumbles, his jaw tight, and seems intent on bracing himself through the resulting argument until, for whatever reason, something crumbles. He pinches his brow.

"Mum was in the Crestwood flood." All the muscles in his face are taut, his glare focused at the fire, "she liked to bring food to the refugees."
A long pause as he sits on it, works the words out of his mouth: "she came back."