He nods a little. “Yeah... he agrees quietly. He gets it. His intermittent bouts of sleep through the last three decades had never been exactly great either, but this place really did thrust some shit onto them. Subconsciously, his fingers stray up to the faint scar peeking up out of collar along one side of his neck. Instead of tracing the reminder of his own brutal death, he lets his fingers slide of the chain that hangs, ever-present against his neck, never quite sliding down to the tags at the end of it.

He thinks managing isn’t going to get any of them very far, but he still feels the same now as he had when he was talking to Malcolm: he still wants to do that group therapy thing, but he’s nowhere near the right space to be able to do it, now. He’s a little at a loss.

And alcohol, the good kind or the home brew, is such an easy way to pretend he can forget. “Too bad it’s not, we could have used a little more of it around here.”