Malcolm stares at Neal, then looks at Tim. At his leg that goes nicely to the floor and also the one he can now see beside it, stopping somewhere up the pantleg.
"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
Tim blinks and it's just like that: he's all caught up. Done processing. He's fine with this. This is fine. Malcolm is looking at him like he's not fine.
Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."
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"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
no subject
Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."