"I think I'll live," he replies, and now that his benefactor is apparently satisfied at his nutritional intake, he rolls up the bag and returns it to his pocket. New York is still a long way off, and there may be a time later when he is walking that he'll require the energy it provides. He must ration things carefully, so that he won't get stuck in some back woods with nothing, like he was when Daniel picked him up.

He takes another few sips of coffee, savoring the warmth-- heat is a luxury, now that he has the ability to appreciate it, all the more so because he's just had an extra four hundred years' worth of absolute-zero cold in Hell-- and then sets it down at his feet.

He looks at his vessel's feet and the dirty, worn-down shoes they are housed in. He has not removed them since he's been on Earth, but he understands that it is inappropriate to lay on furniture with them on. He unties them with some difficulty, as the mud and grime has nearly fused the laces together, and carefully loosens them. When he pulls them out, one at a time, there is a dry, crackling sound, like crunching leaves in autumn. It's from the fabric of his socks, crusted over with dried blood and fluid from the sores and blisters on his feet; he's worn down his extremities about as badly as his shoes, if the fact that his socks, once white, are now almost entirely rust-brown is anything to go by.

There's both pain and relief at having them free, and he experimentally wiggles his toes just to see how much it aches.