He takes the bar, more out of expectation than want, and looks at it queasily as Feank guides him back out of the mess hall again. He does not want to eat. He probably should, but every time he thinks about it, a flash of his face, skin hanging unnaturally, appears in his vision and steals away his appetite.

"Somethin' happened," he murmured lowly, "If I believed in ghosts..." He trailed off. He didn't. But he had to admit those had felt like them.