Not to be crass, [ says Richard, as he stands to cross back for the table, ] but I don’t even think the natives give a rat’s ass about what offends Rutyer Byerly.

[ He places his cup down on the table’s edge, nods a curt thanks for Loxley bringing it for him, and turns back to his bed. He suppresses a wheezing, croupy cough as he goes, blankets bundled in tight.

Back to bed.

Where he sits in vacant silence, dead in the eyes. ]

Pity the bag of holding didn’t come through, [ he says, barely above a mutter. ] We might finally have had a worthwhile target for our rotten corn.