Hasi half-kneels with one knee on the edge of the bed, and takes his face in her hands, sincere, earnest, hoping what she's saying penetrates through the fog settling in on him now: "Listen to me. It's going to be okay. You've seen people take acid before, right? Just...imagine that, but on overdrive."

It's like someone mixed PCP and acid in a hideous chemistry vat, a little.

She reaches down to fetch his boxers and jeans, tossing them up on the bed. “Try to get these on for me, okay? I’m going to get someone who can help us.”

Sort of. He better.

Next, she finds her robe (one of them, this one Carine Gilson in origin, soft silk, gunmetal-gray and edged with black lace) and shrugs it on, cinching it at the waist. Her phone should be in her bag, which is somewhere in the hallway.