[He hasn't come to sit down, though he's leaning heavily on the cane in one hand: a new addition, alongside the goth attire. He has come because everything is bullshit and it's likely none of them were ever safe to begin with, but it means something to see her whole and largely unharmed.

There were too many teenagers stuck in there with him. A girl with red hair. It haunts him. A lot of things do. And he's heard that Peter died: they all could have. Now the least-lucky few of them are upstairs being rebuilt and how the fuck does that work when they tell him they can't even get him a cure?

Prior knows people supposedly being regenerated too. How's anyone supposed to know it's the same person when they come back? God knows Prior doesn't feel the same person he was a week ago.

He finds a smile for her, but it's tight, a muscle strain on a face not currently built for such things.]

You, too. Do you know they wouldn't even let us send postcards? Of everything, that might have been the greatest injustice.

[The attempt at humor falls flat, even to him. He dips his head away as he passes her, turning to the window.]

I keep thinking I ought to get drunk. Or stoned. You'd think I'd sell my mother for a quaalude after all that but I-

[He's even refusing painkillers.]

I can't do it.