Charlie's skin is marked with a handful of scars, though there's nothing that would even come close to speaking of ten years of torture. Two are from bullets -- three if you count the new one on his neck. Shrapnel scars dot his left leg like scattered grains of salt on a watercolour; below them, three small toes and a slice of foot are missing, their absence neat enough to be surgical and old enough to have happened long before New York.

Unlike what's on his head, the thatches of hair on his body are grey and white. He's muscled, but with a little of the loose-skinned look of someone whose weight has swung around.

He's a shivery little ice cube in John's robe, but the shivering starts to slowly relax as he's warmed, till it's less jackhammer and more half-charged electric toothbrush.