He feels it roll through her, sees the chemical cascade clear as anything, laid open and simple for him. She drops her head to his chest. John makes a soft sound, low fretful distress, and caves to ugly longing: he curls in around her, bundles her into his arms like a child. He can tuck her neatly under his chin.

"Hey." He turns his face into her hair, rubs an aimless hand over the rumpled place in her shirt, like he can smooth the wrinkles out. "Hey, come on."

It's a horrible question. Amazing how he's thought of so many horrible questions she could ask, and she leads with this one, which he can't really answer at all. He feels so far away from her. He feels too ancient and too big.

"They didn't shoot me."

It's the only thing he can say that isn't a lie. He's pretty sure, anyway. He kind of lost track at that part.