[he pats the air directly above Pratt's shoulder, because, you know, not sure how that's gonna work out between the alcohol and the bad news.] It sucks, man. Maybe you gotta ask one of 'em to bite you. One of 'em has to be a were-whatever.

[okay. hold on. so much information is coming in at a rapid pace and Sharky's brain isn't really good at processing it. his phone is broken? is that something Friday can help with? and -- wait, is he saying he died sometime between the finger and now?? when the fuck did that happen! and why is this shitty god being a dick to him for no fuckin reason??? doesn't Pratt have enough to deal with without some thunderhead body-shaming him???]

Uhhhh... okay. Lots, uhh, lots goin' on here. You... [no, fuck that, Pratt's in no condition to handle Sharky's condition if he turned out to recklessly endanger himself again. he's gonna go for the easier problem to solve,] You want me to see if I can fix your phone?