"Yuh-huh."

There's probably better things to say. 'Hey, Raylan, I'm here on the cell furthest to the left!' or 'follow my voice, I'm over here!,' or at least something even remotely helpful. Roman, right now, is decidedly unhelpful. Probably because he, like Raylan, is in the middle of being violently, violently ill.

The man of the hour is currently on his cot in zero and looking absolutely miserable. He's pale, his own voice just as rough and worn as Raylan's--he's fairly certain if it weren't for the southern twang he rips on so much he wouldn't have been able to recognize the Marshall's call at all--but he does manage to pull himself up. He's half-sitting, hunched over, and when he pushes the flop of his bangs away from his face it stays slicked back due to sweat. It's disgusting, but so is getting poisoned.

He's debating whether or not forcing himself to throw up like a bulimic model will help when Raylan finally comes into view. He presses his lips into a thin line instead, forcibly forgoing the up-chuck.

God, this is the worst hangover of his life.

"You look terrible."