He couldn't see her well, obviously because it was dark. But he could see enough to momentarily see Isobel in front of him. He blinked, scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to see past the mirage.
"I'm Michael," he told her. "You're the first person I've seen in here that actually talked to me." He'd been chased, he'd been assaulted by horror movie villains, but no one had spoken to him directly. That set her apart.
He wasn't sure it wasn't some kind of trick, how could he be sure in this situation? But he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, largely due to the fact he was too tired to fight.
"It's been broken for ten years," he told her, holding up his hand. It had been healed briefly, sure. But that didn't matter now. It was, more or less, right back to how it had been, and how it should be. "It's fine. I never got it treated back then, either." He'd just wrapped it in an ace bandage and tried not to use it until it healed enough that he could move his fingers without excruciating pain.