Henry considered the bloodstains on the floor and on his clothes, the handprints he'd left on the desk and phone, and the crusty, dried stuff on his chest, and he concluded that Molly was very likely right. If he allowed that the rest of what she was saying also held a grain of truth, then back in New London, some other version of him was bleeding out. Or he already had.
He took a deep breath. Soma would have calmed him completely, but he had to make do. "I see." And he did. Her logic was sound. Incredible, improbable, but not impaired. "And there is no..." He shook his head. "No, I suppose there isn't." Indra would have made her presence known, if she could aid him.
As she could have done, back in New London. Why hadn't she?
Sensing that he was getting agitated, Henry cleared his throat. "You've been very helpful. I should - I was told I have been assigned a room. I should retire. I'm in no fit condition to be in public." That much would have been true anywhere. "Thank you again." But when he made to walk away from Molly, inching by her with poorly disguised wariness, he only made it about four or five feet. His vision pinholed. His knees finally gave out. Blood loss was a bitch like that.