Lev puts his good hand on her face from where she'd knelt down to embrace him and smiles up at her, nose scrunching the way it often did when he was genuinely pleased. "I'm all right. Really." His voice rasps like sandpaper, scratching against his throat hoarsely, but his eyes are crinkled. "They're called Rattlers. They're-they were-" he supposes, "-slavers. They ambushed us before we got to Catalina."