The steam-encased handwriting was brisk and clean and familiar, and Al followed the words as he followed the witch.
He'd seen this handwriting before. Somewhere.
Somewhere here.
"Me," Al confirmed the name. Certainly me. The file was as thin as he remembered it being. Examinations aside, he'd never had a serious hospital stay until...
... until he was injured in the battle.
A stab of something painful rushed through him at the thought of that battle: the sounds of it, the smells, the crowd, but he shoved it aside.
"And you?" he asked in return, tilting his head to the side. "I don't know your name, I'm afraid."