Corry, please. I'm not lord of anything. [But it's amusing, the old-timey sort of talking, the formality of the offered hand, prompting a grin as he takes it, his own broad and warm.] Nice to meet you, under the circumstances. Have you tried to leave yet?

Mmm, yes. [Corry sighs, rubs at his forehead, massaging away the throb of something that's either a migraine or a hell of a hangover.] I could use a fucking drink too, hair of the dog. I feel like shit.