Summer afternoons here aren't near as stifling as what Sam is used to from growing up in central California. Odds are fifty-fifty whether his body is reacting to the temperature or the drug. Given his expressed preference for self-control, Sam doesn't remark on it either way, but there is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it tug at the corner of her mouth.

She pulls more forcefully on the makeshift bandage, straining the fabric to a tighter bind, then securing with a firm knot. One of the strips she cut from his shirt is used to wipe his blood from the blade, which is far from ideal, but it's what they've been given to work with. Isopropyl alcohol isn't for beggars stuck together in whenever-the-fuck time period this dimension best resembles.

Finally, Sam offers him the knife, handle-first, and holds out her forearm.