[ Robby laughs, though it's more of a chuckle that's deep-throated. A bathroom that's had a medicinal stink bomb to it--Robby could handle it, if it was for Mister LaRusso's benefit.

But it seems there's another kind of medicine that the man wants. No pressure; as if it could ever be, but Robby sees the joke in it. He grips the hand he'd stopped playing with, a squeeze in the motion, covering it with both of his. Eyes looking back up at the man, and for all of his complicated emotions: ]

I can do it. [ Robby can't deny Mister LaRusso that.

(It makes things easier, too--that question of if he should stay. Now he doesn't have to think about it. He can just let it happen.) ]

But you have to do whatever you need to to get better. Even if we have to stay here a while; I heard sleeping helps. It's, uh, what I had to do to help my hands heal.

[ The time in the hospital, after coming back from that other world, that bizarro city. A recovery he never talked about; a time he never really likes to think about, even now.

But there's something important in bringing it up, more than a horrid memory. ] If they can fix my hands, you'll be okay.

[ Because he's not even sure he would have any, back in their own world. But here--here, things are different. Sometimes in a good way. ]