Klempner sits up in bed, well-propped, leaning back against pillows. A drip runs, plastic-tubed, to a dressing on his arm. A variety of other dressings, some heavier, some lighter, protect healing bites and injuries.
His face, sunken as it still is, has lost some of that stretched-parchment look it had when we found him. His colour too is rather more normal, the yellow tinge less pronounced.
The matted and stinking beard, now washed, has been combed out and while having a touch of the 'mountain man' about it, is no longer offensive. His hair is tied back in a neat ponytail. Klempner's eyes, although still heavily shadowed, are alert.
The eyes follow me into the room. "Good morning, James." The words drag. The breathing is slow.
"Good morning. You slept well?"