[ Not the touchy sort, got it. Ed can respect that. Unfortunately, he hates to break the bad news, but a couple of months makes him new. Wanda told him she's been here for two fucking years. Which, for the sake of his sanity, he's decided not to think about.

It's gone into the little box. The one in his head he never opens. Frenchie was onto something there. ]

It's not "sheltered," alright? Sailing straight through ice is just asking to get sunk, so, you know, most of us keep south. [ Ed doesn't clarify what he means by us.

Instead, he dusts off his wool cloak, deciding it's time he pack up and go. Gotta get back to fixing door hinges. ]

Look—jars, come to the inn. [ He starts to back away, calling over his shoulder: ] Promise, you won't regret it.