Merritt's already heading that direction, bracing himself with a hand on the counter. "Thanks," he says as he takes the washcloth, wiping at his face, too, and where more had started to run into the crease above his lip while he was laying on his back.

It's unsettling all over again, how close he came to losing that fight, and he takes a breath as he finishes, as he lays the cloth back on the sink.

"When we're all less scrambled," he begins, quietly, "we need to talk about that guy. We might not have seen the last of him."