[For a long few seconds, she does nothing but stare at him. She doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. Just looks at him, with his silly voices and his sickly smile, standing there as if nothing at all had happened.]

You look awful.

[She says it coolly, but there's no heat in her gaze. She's just as exhausted as he looks, too worn down to bother with things like anger or hurt. Rosalind wears a loose top, easy to get in and out of, because her torso is all but covered in bandages. There's a long scar on her left forearm, wrist to the crook of her elbow, and there's traces of bruises and burns on what bits of bare skin he can see.]

. . . but I suppose dying will do that to a person.

[A beat. She takes a step back, implicitly inviting him in. Darwin, that little fat hippo that follows her around everywhere, is pressed up against her ankles. He's whimpering continuously, shivering and shuddering, staring mournfully up at Richie, but Rosalind ignores him.]

My offer to get drunk still stands. Though I don't know if it's quite the same in one's home. Still, I have a story I think you might appreciate once we're three drinks in.