Clark's own glasses have been rescued from his breastpocket and are back on his face, pulling out from the post office parking space, out into the city. He has his phone set up to check where he's going, this time, mostly for his own peace of mind than minding Bruce's directions. Even if he'd memorised a bird's eye view of the sprawling city that is Gotham, which he has not, it's a different task behind the wheel.

"She'll probably be pulling out her hair right about now," he says. "Planting's not for a month but it's always a whole—"

His fingers splay off the wheel. Don't ask.

"I said I'd help out, so, I'll be away a couple weeks, being judged by the neighbours about how little I remember about this stuff, these days. But it'll be nice. And she's great," he adds, with a glance. "I think she likes it when the farm gets busy, people around to feed and tell off."