John turned over the piece of paper, perplexed, only to find that he'd been released. "Clean bill of health," he said. Then he held up the page for emphasis. His smile was lopsided; he didn't really feel that he needed the piece of paper to know that he was sane, but if it was necessary to walk out, so be it.
"I hope we get proper clothes. Pajamas aren't terribly dignified. Or warm. And then there's the matter of identification, but if we're in some strange City I don't suppose anything in my wallet would register, anyway."
Now there was a sobering thought. What was he going to do about... hold on. In the paperwork distraction, John had glossed over a very important point.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Did you just say you'd been a zombie?"