Michael swallows thickly. It’s not that he doesn’t agree with her—it is an important time, something does need to be done, and it all makes him furious (they hurt Lee)—but she can barely walk. She’s wan and shaky and her eyes are rimmed red. She’s been wearing bloodstained clothes for two days and nights and she smells completely unlike herself. It’s harrowing, seeing her like this. Lee is the most important thing in his world. He can’t stop staring at the huge streak of rust red down her back. It makes him want to scream.
“I know. I know, Lee, but please. Listen.” Michael starts fidgeting restlessly by her side. “You—you did do something. And that’s amazing. But you can’t stay now, you’re too hurt. If they get you again you could die, and you can’t do that. You can’t do that.”
Off to the side, Sinclair has looked down and covered most of his face with his hand, cigarette held between index and middle finger. What his hand doesn't cover is shielded by his hair.