"A coma?" Sweeney cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, cigarette still dangling from his lips. Comas were an odd thing. They were set in place by some trauma, some medical condition, sometimes induced by medicine in its urge to assist. In other instances, it was self-inflicted. The effect from enjoying far too much intoxicating beverage in a sitting. But as a comatose individual, they would not be walking about. And there was not a bit of proof that Sweeney would be in any of her comatose delusion.
"I am certainly not in a coma, lass. I'm alive, well and sentient. I know all that I do and all that I not." Shrugging, he pinched the cigarette between two fingers and exhaled. "If I was in a coma and under delusion, I would be back in Ireland and not wandering the streets of a City whose streets continue to shift and change."