Thomas sets his jaw. Of course, on top of everything else, now he has to engage with a simpleton. He sighs, resting his fist against the door and, after a moment, his forehead too. Tiredness washes over him in a steady, endless wave.

"Your ablutions," he repeats around gritted teeth, with very little patience. "Whatever you're doing in there. At a guess I'd say counting every hair on your head, considering how long you've had this door locked. It cannot possibly take this long to wash yourself."