Someone's things were here. Shirts twice his size, decent whiskey, a razor that minds sharpening. He's gone through it all, he's put most of it back,

(Tavarys is here, he needs a drink.)

But a few weeks on, he's ready to clear it. Let them toss it in some closet for the next of kin to come knocking, and that's what he's at by the time Barrow arrives. Strand stoops up from the box he's been tossing the odds and ends into — assesses —

"Feeling better?"

Can't be much.