He thrusts an imaginary bottle back into a nonexistent pocket and huffs out a sound that's too harsh and too mirthless to count for a laugh, but manages to be just as sardonic.

"Who knows?" It's not like he's any better here, right? Still crazy. Still fucked up. Still depressed, still paranoid, still delusional, still prone to seeing things even when he tries damn hard not to pay attention. A whole laundry list of diagnoses, and who's to say which one's the right one?

Who's to goddamn well say.