Grif shrugs. "It's what I'd do," he points out.

This is dangerously close to self-awareness, for Grif.

"So. Connie," he says, shifting the subject back and making an effort to commit that one to memory. "Got it."

He'd rather admit defeat on this tenuous and stupid ground than dig into how bad off York is right now. He can deal with being wrong about something stupid. He can't deal with that.