Outside, Lee crouches with her back to the wall, knees bent, head between them. The street outside smells like wet, dirty asphalt and old garbage, but it's still an improvement over the inside. Every now and then a light breeze blows in fresher air from a nicer part of the city, if such a thing exists.
Lee has her hands on either side of her head, breathing in and out. Michael touching her is soothing, keeps her rooted in her body instead of floating out into space.
She looks up without raising her head, seeing a familiar face. “Sinclair.” ... that's as far as she gets, she's exhausted. Her hands are shaking. She'd kill for a cigarette. (Right now she'd kill for a lot less.)