"I can only imagine," Eliot answers with a sympathetic wince. He doesn't know Kat well enough to feel like he can ask about her injury, but it doesn't seem like something she's been dealing with for a hugely long time. That and her flippant tone makes him even less likely to broach the subject. "Do let me know if you need any errands run, though," he adds. "I'm trying not to go stir crazy here and I might as well attempt to be helpful."

The walk at least is pleasant enough, and eventually they come to the address Martin gave him. It looks exactly like any midcentury storefront in any small down, though to Eliot's eye the dusty wire display easels in the window appear to indicate it might have been some kind of a bookstore.
"Oh," he says, starting to laugh as he looks inside and sees the mountainous piles of boxes. "Oh shit, this is-" it's fucking ridiculous. The top of Martin’s head is barely visible behind a stack, like he’s some kind of paperwork meerkat. Eliot’s practically giggling as he opens the door.