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Yes, is the answer. Earl doesn't even blink. Yes, of course, he <span class="mu-i">loves</span> having friends (and friends of friends) over, it's small in here and he doesn't have much to sleep on but whatever you need he'll— mind the step. Did you avoid the vents okay? It's been a hot week. Is anyone scalded? He has medical— oh, that's just Buster, he's harmless, eats garbage.
"Buster," presently meandering about on the wall, is a plate-sized pill bug. Earl's "house" is bigger than your tent, by dint of having multiple fingerlike "rooms," but it's still cramped— and worsened by the amount of stuff Earl keeps around everywhere. The walls are packed with stained prints, torn paintings, and hand-cut newspaper photographs, not to mention the shelf of chipped vases. The settee is mercifully empty, if weathered, but the low table holds, among other things, an empty gilt candlestick, another vase, and a bowl of colorful rocks. "Sorry for the mess, ladies!" Earl doesn't sound all that sorry. "I don't get friends over too often... make yourself comfortable wherever you can. All I can say is I find something new every time I head past the junk field... would any of you like something? Roger in B makes his own brew, it's not <span class="mu-i">bad—</span>"
You claim the settee before anybody else thinks to. It feels good to sit.
>[1] You're not in good shape (to put it politely), but Earl is so aggressively friendly you'd feel antsy begging off. And he appears to be offering some sort of alcohol. Stay and... chat?
>[2] Damn Earl: you need to lay down. You promised Gil you'd check on him, and you have good news to deliver on the body front— say hello.
>[3] Damn Gil: you need to sleep. Now. Find somewhere quieter and pass out.
>[4] Write-in.
