[His old clothes are just inside the door, wrapped inside a dark towel. He adds them to the bag, and lets out a sigh, some small part of him soothed by gathering the last traces that haven't already gone down the drain.]

Yeah.

Lord. I haven't done a day of actual labor since - I don't know. Ranch camp, when I was thirteen? The infirmary doesn't count. It's sitting and waiting mostly.

[There was his year of penance, reconstructing shattered cities. But he's put it out of his mind, and he doesn't think of the oversight.]