Cammie's eyes seem to focus and unfocus, torn between seeing what's really here and seeing what's in her head. Gritting her teeth, tugging so hard at her hair it's a miracle she isn't pulling strands out, she lets out a frustrated, wordless shout.

"Fuck that guy," she repeats with a nod, voice still strained with the effort of fighting whatever this hell is to get one of her feet under her. "He's dead. He's— he's dead, and he cannae be here, and—"

She survived the rig. She helped everyone else survive the rig. Right. Right.

She stumbles, but she doesn't let herself fall back to her knees. She leans against Saturday, wordlessly doing what she says she needs to. The memory isn't gone, she can all but feel the claws on her chest, but Saturday's flesh and blood and here right now. She tries to focus on that.