"Yeah," Oliver blatantly lied, despite the fact that relief surged through him at the question. "It's gonna be okay," he added, though he didn't believe it. He knew he needed to calm down and focus, that he had years of goddamned training that he needed to start implementing. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a few seconds, nodding at Owen's words.
When he opened them again he looked down to Edwin. "I've gotta move you, baby. I need to try and get Chase outta that chair. He's gonna help me with you, okay?" Or, more likely, they were going to kill Simms the instant the man tried to reenter the cell block. Then keys. Cuffs. Cells. Finding Cecilia. Medical attention. Figuring out how the fuck to get out of here.
The plan wasn't the hard part, at least not at the moment. Moving, however, felt impossible. Especially without hurting Edwin any more than he already was, which meant going slowly. That was only exacerbated by the fact that with the adrenaline dying down, half of Oliver's body felt numb and almost gelatinous, while the rest screamed in stiff, excruciating pain. He carefully leaned Edwin against the bottom bunk, but pulling himself to his feet was a trial. His bleeding foot slipped, and he only just caught himself before he fell with his good hand reaching for the frame of the top bunk. His already injured leg complained loudly and threatened to buckle again. He could feel his fingers threatening to slide away, and it was only by bracing himself that he was able to make any progress toward the door.