may the bridges i have burned light my way back home

Isla take your medicine "You have nothing to apologise about," Isla says, her voice softly factual, invoking no sympathy or pity. "You came to me for help, and I'm helping. It's my job to help people." Smiling, she straightens up with the pillow to set it down with the blanket she's folded. Still, for all of her reassurances, Isla is still relieved when he knocks back the medicine; she accepts the glass back and sets it down. "Take a deep breath in for a count of four, and out for four," she advises him, all the while adjusting the ice pack and making sure he's not going to end up passing out with a crick in his neck. "And when you feel ready, start counting back from twenty." In Isla's experience, patients are out like a light by the time they get to number eight - Sunjata proves to be no different. He sleeps and the world goes stark and silent, and Isla feels herself strangely relax. She cleans up first - the broken glass, the spilled water, the maddening doodles - and by the time Sunjata comes around, it will be to a scene of serenity and calm. The ice pack is replaced once more by the pillow, and the blanket will be tucked around him. On the table is a cool glass of water and a jug in case he needs any more. And Isla? She's at her desk, the beginnings of Sunjata's file now fleshed out in full with symptoms, his personal explanations, her observations and more. And she's currently gazing at a vial of something, seeming particularly focused on it.