It feels like he ought to say something to that, but somehow he can't come up with anything to say. Is he doing better? Better than what?

Somewhere, deep down, there's an old impulse to lash out with something cruel, the way he always used to. He can't decide whether he's resisting it because he's become a better man, or if it's the lingering effects of captivity-- the desire to stay out of sight, keep out of trouble.

"Yeah," is all he can manage.