Logan deftly catches each item, shoving the jerky into the pocket of his hoodie. He frowns at the bottle of rubbing alcohol, then spins off the top and dumps it onto his knuckles. The sting of it on the half-healed cuts is a bright note of pain that, if nothing else, sends the vertigo and confusion of their surroundings shivering back for a moment.

"Sure," he replies, opening the pack of bandages and beginning to wind them around his hand. "Though it ain't gonna do much good once it runs out. Especially if people keep turnin' up like they have. It'll get ugly enough before we gotta start worryin' about scurvy."