Graham was... Well, Graham was okay, for the most part. Things hadn't turned out as horribly disastrous as he had projected, once he realized his shitty bodyguards had been killed.
He had probably strained his knee way more than he should have, since it was already in pain to begin with. He'd dug a few splinters out of his own fingers and hand, once he'd made it back to the Capitol after his unexpected adventure with Teagan.
But after that? Really he only had a few bumps and bruises, and a cut on the back of his leg from when he stumbled backward over the paint buckets and such on the rooftop.
For as much of a scaredy cat persona that Graham gave off, his friend Archer was right. Technically, Graham was a badass. That part of him just got a bit lost in his fear of the zombies and whatever PTSD symptoms that still lingered from his plane crash, a monster trying to chew off his arm, and him trying to survive and seek help and rescue from whatever home that he had locked himself up in.
Yes, Graham survived his plane's crash landing, due to the virus outbreak on board. And sometime between the outbreak and him getting away from the wreckage to safety, he was bitten pretty badly on his upper right arm. He credits adrenaline for keeping him going, and he still has no recollection of how it all happened. But that also may be due to the blow to his head, which also left a small scar above his right brow.
Graham beat the shit out of the zombie!passenger in question with a piece of the wreckage. Adrenaline and a sort of blind rage were the only explanation that Graham had for that. And due to his survival instincts, he pulled a first aid kit out of an older woman's hands-- a moment that he was not proud that he remembered. Or proud that he had accomplished. But it was what it was.
And, after staggering to a nearby house, Graham passed out in the kitchen floor. Who knows for how long, but he was fortunate that the house was unexpectedly vacant. No zombies. No one.
After drifting in and out of consciousness for a while, Graham managed to pull himself together long enough to stitch his own arm back up with some fishing line that he found in the garage of the home. Unfortunately, he couldn't find-- and didn't have the patience to find a needle. He had to improvise. Fishing line and a 1/32"drill bit. No, it wasn't easy. Yes, it hurt, and it was probably the reason for the worst of the scarring on his arm, just above his elbow.
But Graham was a badass. In his own right. He just needed to realize it.
In the meantime, he'd be a chicken on a rooftop, letting a girl kick zombie ass and save him, while he hobbled away with nothing but a fucked up knee.
That was mainly his reason for coming, today.
His stupid knee. Thanks to that stupid blob.
"Frost," he said strongly, "Graham Frost. I contacted you last week about my knee?" He straightened up from his spot on the table. It was always such an awkward place to sit. Like you were on display or something. He cleared his throat, "I-I apologize about not showing up on Saturday. I ended up trapped on a roof, and stranded a few miles out. I hope that it's alright, my just showing up like this. They said you were busy."