The first few days he makes the drive to eat with his mother and Gran, glad for the company. Filling them in had been- not entirely fun, but necessary. Someone needs to know what's going on an while they understand- they ain't all that happy. Giving them space to adjust is only polite. He's in the middle of starting up dinner for himself, a large batch of something he can work on for the better part of the week when he hears someone on the winding road to the cozy little space he'd set up for himself.

Solo hospice, sort of.

He's not really expecting company, so the sound is startling enough to nick his thumb when someone knocks- the slow welling of blood irritating more than anything else. With a swear and a sigh he bunches a rag against the small cut, shouldering the door open with a scowl that drops into immediate shock. "Jim? What are you doing here?"