[ Distress is generous, that's phrasing it really charitably; Carmy's been here for a grand total of two (three?) days, and he thinks he might be losing his mind, if he hasn't already, because why is it dark at 9 in the morning in June? Why is he strolling through magic portals like he's taking the L? Why does the wine smell suspiciously like blood?

He can't be here. He's got a restaurant to run (but what did he spend all of their first goddamn service doing except fucking everything up?), but instead he's—

Oh. It all goes quiet. There's another woman, and it feels like she appeared out of thin air. He stares at her, abruptly reminded of the time he dropped his books on the way home from school, and it was—a girl, a one-time homecoming queen—and he knew she only stopped to give him a hand 'cause of Michael. 'Cause he was Mikey's kid brother, and that's how she even noticed him at all.

He coughs, clearing his throat. ]

No, we're—I'm okay. [ Well, he's not okay, but he didn't cut himself or anything. He's just soaking wet. He looks up at the other victim in the collision. ] Are you okay? [ He suddenly feels like an asshole for not asking before, but the lady only gives a disgruntled snort. ]

—Yeah, she's okay. I think I might owe her a new jug and some dry-cleaning, but I...don't have any money.