"Everything'll kill me," he complains. And then, "Sure, I'll make coffee. Hang on." The soft twang on his accent is stronger than usual, and he isn't talking as formally as he usually does, a little more of his beginnings showing in his pattern of speech. He slips into the kitchen, easy now with the medication, his free hand curled around the smooth handle of the cane.
In the kitchen he gets out the coffee pot and filters, and finds another pack of cigarettes in a drawer, lights himself a fresh one and smokes it feverishly while he gets the coffee perking.