"Yeah. Don't close that door, just in case, but don't expect it to save you either."

He takes a longer sip from his glass and then rests his chin on a hand, looking up at the ceiling as if in thought. Does he?..

"Not exactly," he mutters, frowning. "I'm in a worse shape there. Not much I can do. But..." He plucks a straw from a paper packaging and stirs the rest of his rainbow-layered drink into a vaguely purple sludge.

He can still make small efforts to rebuild, sure -- nothing that anybody else can't do in his stead, though. He'll never be the irreplaceable force of nature he used to be again, even if he manages to eventually get out of that wheelchair.

"I want to stay here -- any place like this -- because of the people I got back. If I can't have them... might as well stick to a place I belong. Do whatever little I can to make it better. Does that make sense?"