The door opens after a moment on the familiar, empty living room.

"In here," Jedao calls, hoarsely. He's in his bedroom, gingerly sitting up from where he'd been curled on top of his covers, wrapped up in one of those hoodies with a drawstring to close off the face. There's almost no skin showing at all - socks still on, hands deep in the front kangaroo pocket, only the tip of his nose visible. A small pile of ration bar wrappers in a heap on the bed next to him.