"Listen," Malcolm said, leaning towards him, "my mother is an alcoholic, so I get it, but... getting out of here is the way to resolve chemical shortages and we can only do that by figuring out what the purpose of this is and how the cage works. I know you want to know," he said, wagging a finger at the Marshal. "I've seen your face when you look around and figuring stuff out is what you do." A beat. "Though I'm sure it's very convenient to be able to just make the chemicals you're dependent on," he conceded.

He slid his hands into his pockets carefully picking his way around something that wasn't there, then glancing over his shoulder at it. He looked at Raylan and smiled faintly. "They've got me on several heavy things," he admitted like it was a secret. "For anxiety, depression... complex post-traumatic stress." He looked at the Marshal again, his expression suddenly sober. "You wish you were here with anybody else, don't you?" It wasn't a question either. He turned his attention down to the stairs as he stepped on them.