[There's a heavy fraction of a second there, before Tenma sighs — relaxes, almost. That sort of frayed quality to him is still there, all the more obvious now that he's not in immediate doctoring mode; the dark circles under his eyes, the way he grips at the edge of the desk hard, and pretends he doesn't. But, well.]

It's an answer. [And that's something, where uncertainty would be worse. He does half a gesture with his other hand, meant to signify something or other. He's not sure? There aren't too many words for "world-hopping anxiety situations" that he's aware of.] I doubt I'll be hearing much from anyone who's not here anymore, after all.

[The people he's worried about back home number half a dozen, patient included, and that's only the immediate concerns — he's going to miss some resolutions. A funeral. That one twists guiltily in his stomach, and so—]

We were... chosen, right? To come here. [Summoned, pulled, whatever. He doesn't know what his spider bite patient thinks of all that, if perhaps he spent a while furious like some Tenma saw at the barracks, before arriving at a "few seasons." But Tenma expects more honesty from another Summoned, so:] How can I help?