There is indeed no answer. By the time everything had finally wrapped up the previous night-- tearful reunions, an attempt to get some form of sustenance into both himself and his Pokemon, the setting-up of a long-unused room for a sleeping space, the exchange of ratty grass-stained clothing for clean ones-- Wrath, already running on fumes for weeks at this point, had been unconscious before his head had even finished hitting the pillow.

The lump on the bed has barely moved, in fact, since anyone last looked in on him. All that's visible of the boy in question is some of that shaggy hair poking out from under the blankets.

But said lump does stir a tiny bit, at the squeak of the door's hinges.