Lazarus is sitting on the made bed with a large plastic bag containing his possessions at his side; he didn't have much with him during his stay, aside from some toiletries and clothing and general small items of comfort brought to him by those who cared enough to fetch them. His father's watch and family's menorah were brought by request; as is his habit when he changes locations for significant amounts of time, he likes having those nearby. He's staring at his shoes when he hears familiar, approaching voices and a sharp rap on the door.

The nervousness had started to seep out of him, but now it's back full force. He starts to rise, but opts to save his stiff leg the unnecessary steps. "Please come in," he calls, wondering if his script will hold up or he should abandon it entirely. He catches a glimpse of himself in the room's mirror above the sink by glancing sideways, and it's about as bad as he thought; three weeks of hospital food and constant anxiety and depression eating at him have done the robustness of his appearance absolutely no favors.