Dick is the sort of shabby that cuts an uninviting silhouette down the alleys of lowtown -- bony and narrow beneath the bristle of bear fur at his shoulders, an undead hang to his gait. But his eyes are sharp in a glanced greeting, distinctly alive in their inspection of what Loxley’s done with the place once he’s inside, in golden light and stove warmth.

It looks lived in.

He takes off his hat, and he’s missing a notch of his ear to match the rake of a fresh scar across his cheek.

“Just thirsty,” he says, once he’s confident there’s nowhere a third party could pop out of. The trunk, perhaps. Beneath the bed. Both unlikely. “This is very homey.”

...Sounds like a compliment.