Dan just turned his head a little to look at Shep, which let him sit up a little bit straighter. How was he going to answer that?
"My head," he began, talking quietly and slower than usual, pausing at each throb of his headache, "it's, uh. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. These'll help. Want some? They're my dad's. For his back."
There. Vague enough, he hoped, and let his eyes slide shut against the pain in his head.