Sylar considered that for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was tired, likely because he hadn't really slept in four months, there a distinct difference between asleep and comatose, but he didn't want to go back to bed. Not when he had been trapped there for months. Not when he couldn't be entirely certain that he wouldn't wake up again. He'd probably avoid sleep for as long as he could now, and that in mind, he rolled one shoulder in a shrug and spit out the next thing that had occurred to him.

"I'm starving." He hadn't eaten in four months, either, and that was catching up with him slowly as his body healed.