[He sways and stumbles, and doesn't quite fall, but probably comes close enough for that catch to be warranted. Lycka whimpers, a low and apologetic sound. This is almost like being humiliatingly and catastrophically drunk, but with a very good reason, at least from the perspective of the person with brain inflammation.]

I'm homeless!

[He says so very cheerfully.]

I live at my job, so. That's at the beach. All of my things are there, where I'm working. I came here for...

[He rummages around in the bags he's taking from Lumenwood, casually handing Kyle several large syringes and vials.]

I'd do it by myself but... my hands don't work so well right now, and it's really inconvenient.