Nathan gave her an odd look at the mention of morphine. He'd seen entirely too many men, wounded soldiers from the war, who had become dependant on morphine. Whiskey tended to serve him just fine.

... And he'd become equally dependant on that. It figured.

He was eyeing the IV in his arm, then, because that seemed easier to focus on than the 'soldier's disease.'

"I'd just as soon keep my wits about me," he noted, though it wasn't entirely a protest. "How long does that thing have to stay in me, anyhow?"