"Right," Luther answers, pressing the sports drink into Kallus's good hand. "Okay, no hospital. I guess they don't hold a candle to badass space hospitals, huh." He settles into position, working on the wounded arm, cleaning it with less gentleness than he feels. "It bled enough it might need stitches, but we can do that here. Drink that, will you?"

He's quiet for a few moments, trying to wrangle his feelings and coming up short. A lot has happened in the last several hours; he can't afford to freak out about any of it.

"I don't think I killed your barista," he says, "but I broke her nose for sure. Real fucking glad you didn't go to that party."