The first thing Silas probably should’ve done was to go and fetch one of the medics. He couldn’t do much for a panic attack, if that was what she was having. Jaw slack, he leaned forward over his cane again, scooting to the edge of his seat in case he needed to run off and get help. Waking up in an unfamiliar place was always jarring; Silas knew that from experience, both because of past injuries and from passing out after drinking too much.
His brows lifted slightly when she shook her head, either to convey that she didn’t understand or that she didn’t know him. The latter would’ve been easier to work with, because at least he could communicate with her. The former brought up the possibility that she might not speak English. He knew a scattering of words and phrases in various languages, but not really enough to hold a conversation with somebody for very long. And then there was the possibility that she might be deaf.
All of this filtered through his mind during the moment’s pause between his introduction and hers.
“Allison. Cool name.” Probably a dumb thing to say, but it was something. He didn’t want to press her for too much information about herself right off the bat.
It looked like she’d calmed down somewhat, so Silas sat back in his chair again, relaxing a little, but still alert for any sign that might mean Allison needed immediate medical attention.
Subconsciously following her example, he let his gaze rove around the Quarantine room, as well. “Sing Sing,” he answered. “Prison compound turned home for the rebels. You’re safe here.” His gaze returned to Allison, this time focusing on the angry red scratches covering her body, before resting on the area of the blanket where her foot was. Zombie bite on the ankle. “You got bit, sweetheart. Remember what happened?”