Tim's stepping forward, asking after him, like he thinks he can help.

The concern's not for him.

"I'm fine," he spits out, because he knows the script by rote, but it comes out in a low, hoarse whisper. Wrong voice.

He can breathe underwater, can drown without dying, but he can't just talk. He shouldn't need to talk. He observes. He archives. That's his purpose.

"Sorry, it's--it's something in the air, I think."