“I might be able to stomach a little bit of eggs,” Malcolm told him in a soft, almost chastened voice. “But if I can’t, it’s not your fault; I can’t stomach most food when my chemicals aren’t all out of whack. I haven’t eaten more than tea, water and a bit of juice since I got here,” he confessed, scrubbing his unbandaged and slightly steadier hand over his face. Which probably wasn’t helping his body cope with everything. If he could get some eggs in him, it would certainly be for the best. Better than moonshine. He looked at Doc and then Raylan. “Can I get up without anyone tackling me back to the ground? I have to pee.”