Isla
Time is meaningless here in the infirmary. There are windows, but Isla is careful to avoid the pools of light that stream in through them. And things are quiet at the moment, hence why Nate is so easily able to find an unoccupied bed, why the echo of his knuckles against the wall draws attention so quickly. Isla emerges from the stock room across the way, a small box of medicines in her arms, and as her eyes fall on him, sunglasses and curls and all, she can't help but smile.
"You came," she says by way of greeting, setting down the box and moving to come and say a proper hello. "You look how I'd imagine you'd look if you were hungover," she remarks. "How are you doing, Nate...?" It's not a question she necessarily expects an answer to, but it needs asking nonetheless.
"You came," she says by way of greeting, setting down the box and moving to come and say a proper hello. "You look how I'd imagine you'd look if you were hungover," she remarks. "How are you doing, Nate...?" It's not a question she necessarily expects an answer to, but it needs asking nonetheless.
sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything
and try forgetting everything
