The shelves took his attention as he trailed behind, absently taking in the displays - now and then prodding at something as he walked past. All these things for needs he hadn't even imagined before he'd suddenly found seventy years had passed. They'd made do with cotton balls and scraps of cloth, boiled water and harsh soap. Sometimes a dash of whiskey if they couldn't find anything else. And now there were pads and bandages and ointments and creams, alcohol that he knew better than to even think about drinking.

He picked a box up at random and started reading before shaking his head and putting it back. "Is there anything this stuff doesn't cure?"