[He closes the door behind her once she's inside, slow and gentle, and keeps his hand on the doorknob as if to figure out how to answer that question. How is he doing when he's awake...]

He's... better than he was on the draft. But he's quiet. He doesn't eat much, doesn't sleep much, apologizes for nothing sometimes... [Teddy leans against the door, arms crossed and gaze on the floor.] I know I've got no business diagnosing anything, but I think it might be PTSD. Or something like it.