[He can't help it—a grim chuckling sounds in his throat, much as he stifles it, not willing to prompt a further attack. The poor fool, worrying about him. The boy's right about one thing, though: he's doomed out here, that much is clear.

His voice is smaller and hoarser than he'd like, and that makes his tone hard.] I have always been sick, my entire life. This is normal. [Normal, but with nothing to blunt the edge, he isn't sure how long he'll weather it.] My brother is looking for me. You can go. Live as long as you're able.