The words rose to Larry's lips, instinctual: I'm fine. And he supposed that from a certain sort of perspective–One he'd be better off trying to see from more often–he was exactly that. Fine. Not great, not even good, but with nothing in the world he could reasonably complain about. He was here, wasn't he? He was alive, he was well fed, his worries were distant and nebulous.

He hesitated, though, and then huffed out a quiet, resigned breath.

"Not too far from that same feeling, myself," he admitted, and found that as he said it, he was glad he had, glad that Martha was someone who could relate in some small way. "Feel a lot like I'm spinning my wheels." Pausing, he scratched at the back of his neck and then peered back up at Martha through the mop of his hair. "Frannie's been gone a few weeks now. Pretty sure she's not coming back."