Guybrush slid into a chair, opening his lunch sack to inspect the goods inside: a cookie, a sandwich- things he would have kept normally, but given that the nurses watched him and his fingers every time he entered the room, he was led to believe he wouldn't have been able to sneak either item back to his room if he tried. He looked over his shoulder casually, pretending to stretch- indeed, the nurse was watching him, standing by the door to make sure he didn't leave with any of the implements littering the tables.

He turned back with a sigh, resigning himself to being as well-behaved as humanly possible and hoping they didn't search his pockets on the way out. One idea did cross his mind: perhaps he couldn't take the plastic safety scissors or tubes of glitter, but he could ask if he'd be allowed to take something else, like something he'd made. They'd probably tell him it was just a way to fuel his delusions, but he figured it couldn't hurt to work off some stress with some old-fashioned letter-writing. It reminded him of his days out at sea, when he was separated from his beloved Elaine for months at a time. He could have written entire novels dedicated to her at that time.

Grabbing a sheet of paper and a few crayons, he got to work.

My dearest Elaine,

A pause, after which he couldn't think of what to write. What did one write in a hypothetical letter to the woman he loved when she'd been at the institute before? Did she still have her mind? Was she Elaine from the past, or would she know of the future? How much was safe revealing to her without sounding crazy? 'Honey, I saw an inspector get mauled to death by an abomination worse than any conjured by voodoo' generally wasn't a good start for such a thing.

He reached into the bag and pulled out the cookie, starting on it first.

[Michelangelo]