Listening to Ed speak, he does sit, his hands laying flat upon the table and his fingers splaying out slowly, covering as much space as he can manage for a moment before pulling all the digits back into balls.

I wasn't well could mean any number of things. Mental unwellness, physical aliments, infections, injuries. Or it could be something unique to the setting, something Oswald doesn't yet know about. He thinks briefly about the story he spun to the press about why he had Edward Nygma on display in a block of ice in the Lounge and his stomach tightens briefly from association.

"But... You are now well on the way towards making a full recovery, I am sure. And sleeping more soundly once again, I hope!"

Does he hope? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe...