Yeah. That's our problem. I might have to ask someone to shop for us. Nick tugs at his own wrinkled clothes, the same he greeted Will in the first time. He doesn't actually mind wearing the same thing for days or weeks on end--he can wash it whenever he wants here, which is nice--but it's not ideal, either.

He sips his coffee and squints down at the cup, then decides to be honest, pinning it between his knees and writing: I was hoping I'd see you. No offense. Even if you've had worse.

He does refrain from asking what that worse is, exactly, because he thinks that's sort of missing the point of an open discussion.