Sam’s mostly managed to pull himself together - not shaking anymore, water turned off and his hands dried, one hand still throbbing but he’s sure he didn’t break anything, and he’s contemplating slipping through the main room to get to his, to get his laptop and some books - by the time he can hear his brother’s voice, pitched just-so for Sam to catch from the other room, something about more kids and ordinarily he’d go back out there to hear better, but the mere idea makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, so he stays where he is, hands on the edge of the counter, head down, looking at the counter-top, just breathing and waiting for them to go so he can get his computer and his books and get to work on this, so he can stop feeling like this bundle of panicked energy waiting to explode again, worse.