"Yes please, I'm parched," Hecate said, her voice taking on Beatrice's musical, southern twang, as if she was still living that summer in the Dust Bowl. But she was far from there, in space, in time... in temperature. The skin of her arm looked like chicken skin, though she didn't have the wherewithal to feel the cold, yet. Hecate stretched her leg a little and was rewarded with a fresh sizzle of pins and needles. They started in her leg, but ended in a full body shudder. "Ow," she said, and then, "I don't mean... ow... I feel... everything." She felt the weight of her head on her arm, the weight of her hip pressed to the ground, the tight pain of cramp in a muscle of a limb she couldn't identify, the fizzing of every inch of her skin.