He closes his eyes, making some attempt at taking a slow, calming breath, though it doesn't do a whole hell of a lot to relax him. But it seems to be enough to get him off some kind of repetitious "make a hat and get it to work" train of thought.

"I don't have magic," he points out bitterly, as if she could have possibly known. "If I did, I would have made it work years ago. But somebody with magic could-- could help me make a hat." What do hats even have to do with anything? He doesn't explain that part yet, but he does seem calmer again, and he looks at the hospital with some trepidation, but waits for Dr. Rousseau before getting out of the car.