"The cigarillos or the opium?" he asks with a laugh after blowing a stream of smoke over his shoulder. "Well I was diagnosed with tuberculosis at fourteen. The cigarillos came before, the opium came after, manage the pain." Which he is only just going to touch on and not talk about at any great length. Funnily enough, you can't be a good dentist or become renowned for having the quickest draw if you have no control over when your body decides to cough its lungs out.

"Are you saying you're not bored of all this snow and my terrible cooking already?" Doc asks wryly. He doesn't mind it anymore, spending as much time as he has in a place that gets plenty of snow. But he'd take ten years on an island over whatever fresh hell this place is.