Fix this. That's the mantra that's running on repeat in R's brain: you need to fix this. At least try. The Dead part of him, the one that's like all the other zombies out there, thinks that's too hard. It'd be easier to stop thinking.

R stands there swaying and gaping up at the Speakeasy's sign before he finally closes his mouth. He's probably in there. It's either Howard or Wyatt or both, like last time, and R's so spooked at the idea of talking to either of them that he almost turns tail and shuffles off in the opposite direction. Go find a nice, comfortably dark corner to rock in. Instead he lurches forward. There's a reason why the other Dead consider him the resident weirdo.

He finds Wyatt in the back. It takes him awhile to notice there's this invisible line in a radius around the Living man, like he's diseased and he knows it and the other customers know it, too. No one sits near him. People tend to take the long way around if they can. R goes against the grain, pushes one dragging foot forward, and bumps into Wyatt's table with his hip before he gets cold feet.

"...Sit...here? Want...to talk."