He feels a pressure at his side, barely noticeable over the pins and needles under his skin, the spikes of pain at the base of each feather. Then, all at once, gravity's coming at him from a different angle, and he's stumbling to get his feet under him.

There's another weight still pulling at his wing, twisting it at an odd angle, but then he feels the strap of his bag unhook from his elbow, slide down the rest of his wing, and the pressure stops.

He blinks through the headache, but the film across his eyes just swims in place. His breath hitches, heartrate spikes with one sudden, full, coherent thought: What if it's permanent?

It's followed by a second thought: Tim's still here.

Another spike of agony drills into the space between his eyes, and he stumbles again, leaning hard against the shape holding him upright.

We have to go.

It hurts. But they have to go. He stumbles forward, one foot still curled unnaturally under his weight.