Peter shuffles back, his ratty shoes with their treads, worn from all the shuffling, squeaking slightly. He starts to hold up his hands and he can't tell if he wants to grab or he's trying to show he's unarmed.

"I'm....R," he says and he's actually relieved he not only can remember his name today, he can get it out it one shot. Barely any groaning. Go him. "Heard...talk...ing. Curious."

And this probably won't help, but he's pretty full from the zombie buffet last night - while he had time to scrub his face clean of gore in a street puddle, it hasn't been long enough where his permanently dry mouth starts leaking black fluid instead of spit. For a corpse he figures he's presentable. Hopefully conversation-decent if the door opens. Can't even remember when he had one of those.