Raju looks down at his knuckles, then wonders why. It isn't as if he hasn't seen them already. He nods, goes to the lavatory to rinse his hands, feels an odd sort of quiet, a still wariness with tension underneath. The tension is anger, he realises, as he comes back into the sitting room and sees the fire there again. He's keeping it lit. He thinks he recognizes it by now, the unnatural way the force inside him moves when it looks this way. That means he's still angry.

He goes over to the rags he keeps in here now, picking through the pile to see if any are the right size and shape to wrap around his knuckles. His gaze catches on Francis as he's doing it and stays there, and his searching hand slows.

Of course Raju's still angry.

How are you feels like such a pointless question, after what they've just endured. He wants to hear it, but he doesn't want to insult Francis by asking something so painful and obvious. Instead: "How's the pain? I can find snow to wrap in some of these, numb some of it a little."