He was lying in a bed, curled up against the wall, but it wasn't their bed. He didn't have to look to know that. Reese wasn't there with him.
He stopped breathing.
If he started thinking, he would remember.
His pulse quickened, sensations sharpened - he wanted to stop but he couldn't.
The dinosaurs. The blood. The razor. More blood. The arm. The spear. Blood again.
It all connected.
He bolted upright, back connecting with the wall, everything coming into focus.
He was going to throw up.
But he didn't. Not yet. He felt too dry to even try, and after several minutes, the shaking subsided, and he attempted to slowly level his breathing.
He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and digging his forehead in, attempting to make himself smaller. It was irrational. He obviously couldn't decrease his body mass by changing his position. But he preferred to take up as little room as possible.
He had no self-diagnostics to run, but he knew he was damaged. He didn't know if he could be fixed.
He needed to be still. To just be.