Saturday appreciates his help, can see that she needs it, hates it nonetheless. She tries to bite her inner cheek to keep tears from welling, but it's one drop of pain against a backdrop. All she can do is breathe carefully and drink the glass dry, tipping it and her head as far as she can bear for them to go.

When it's done, her mouth is fine, but her throat still aches. Like a raw wound. She touches the bandages at her neck, frowning, and tries to speak. Only that dusty pant comes out.

Oh, I don't like that. She locks eyes with Guts, alarmed.