[A shame-faced grimace, like he knows he's in trouble but is determined on being angry about it. Not that he'd truly be in trouble for his bad turn of luck, of course, but try telling an anxious, moody, self-loathing teenager that.]

He's not here anymore. And my meds got left in Deerington.

[It didn't really seem important to bring them, when he thought even his broken leg would get erased. Which it did, for awhile, but...]

We went home, to Indiana. I guess- the dream magic messed with it, or something. Like the nine months I was there, it was like it never happened, and then- [He gestures to his leg, frustrated.] Like it healed while I was there, but wrong.