The mood shifts too quickly, and her still-exhausted mind can't keep up. She startles at the appearance of the chair, as if perhaps that too is a threat. Are they fighting? Are they running? Sitting, apparently!?

The jolt of adrenaline she felt when Harrow put her body in front of her is keeping her pulse hammering in her ears, but returns little strength to her limbs or clarity to her mind. By the time Harrow convinces her to warily drop herself down into the chair, everything feels distant, like she's reading about it in a flimsy comic and not living in it herself.

Someone in the grey fatigues of the Sixth takes her arm to feel her pulse. She tries to snatch it back but it's held firm. Another hand grabs her chin, and someone is shining a pen light in her eyes.

"Harrow," says someone, who's voice sounds strangely like Gideon's. "Harrow..." the voice sounds plaintive, pathetic. She wonders who it is.