[There's no response. Because he's yanking on a cardigan and bolting out the door, excited like a dog first let out into the backyard - Gracie's back. The whole coma thing freaks him out more than he is willing to admit, and people around him dropping into them like flies is keeping him on edge. He's got a canvas bag on his shoulder with a hastily stuffed in bottle of red, and he barrels on through her door without knocking because hey. Who cares.]
no subject
Graaaacie, I'm hoooome.