Mmmm. [Ratchet rubs absently at one of the scars aching at his wrist before he forces himself to let go, settling back a bit.]

He's managing. [His lips thin, an odd mixture of worry and anger and fondness in his face.] He didn't tell me he was sick until after we were out of the Cetagandan base and into the damn woods, I nearly wrung his neck right there for not letting us wait until he was better to wander around outside for several days. Other than his close brush with being murdered, though, he's holding up fine. His head's all right, his leg's mostly healed up, and he looks like he's going to make a recovery from the flu. I've strictly forbidden him from developing pneumonia--if he keeps to that she should be fine.