He drops his hand—a few seconds and his arm's ready to buckle under the weight of it. “You got your walkie?” His eyes are bright in the dark, follow the shifting shadows to her hip.

Distractedly he struggles closer, breath catching now and again. “When I was in that cell, I tried opening it up. Now I—I was dehydrated. Coming off a mystery drug, no telling what was in my system. And—” The pause wouldn't fit a knife's edge; he can't allow himself more than that. “I see things. Sometimes. Lights and colors, patterns. But not like that, not like what happened.”