River spits out the rinse into the basin. The liquid is a thin green, but in the basin it's the diffuse muddy color that blood brings.

"Right now," she says, ignoring the gauze in his hands.

Her eyes slip from Edward to the air around and beyond him, but they always return to his face. In her mind are memories, and heartache and comprehension, and alarm.

"It's necessitated." Bleak, and urgent. (And a bit muffled, thanks to the jaw.) "In the transitional fabric. Call it a continuum."