"Good."

She's got more to say; a joke, maybe, about him being too heavy for her to carry, or something, but the soft way he's leaning into her, and the dampness of her cheek against his shoulder— she can't make the words come. He's torn up all along that side, old wounds opening and the odd sour smell of Turian blood has been lingering for long enough that Shepard's gone nose-blind to it. Part of her is tense, waiting, thinking that now's the time to leap into action, to make bandages, to bind him up. But, looking down at her own limp arms and the dry fissures slowly potholing themselves open... it's pointless.

He's not injured, he's... sick. The way she is. The way a good half or more of them are, and more every day. Those fucking spores.

"Fucking Thorian bullshit," Shepard grumbles, "We got out of that one too. We'll get out of this. Soon."

Unless they brought them here just to die, which would seem counterproductive to the whole process, something has to change soon. More food and water, at least; something. Her gut never lies; the chance will come soon, or else there won't be one.

"Has to be."