Deputy Pratt has had the worst month of his life in October. Or well, life and death actually. Which is still saying something considering how much he was tortured when he was alive.

He's wearing his uniform, but even though he's always been small and skinny, he's downright emaciated now and the shirt is hanging off of him. He had to pierce another hole into his duty belt to get it to fit.

He's carrying a totebag full of junk food from the Sundries shop, bags of Serena Eterna doritos crinkling as he walks.

"Oh. Uh. Hey." He sounds exhausted, and his voice is a bit like a crow with laryngitis. His eyes flick over her, searching his memories for if he knows this person, "You new?"