Jo's brow crinkles a little but doesn't say her only thought. That having something worth waiting for doesn't always make it worth it. Sometimes it scours you from the inside out. She hates waiting, and she's proven to be interminably good at it, which only makes her hate it more. Like something was scouring her skin slowly, minute by minute, hour by hour, insult by insult, shot by shot.

The second question makes her face shift, tightening a little, and relaxing, gaze darting to that door and the wall around it, like she could see through it somehow. Check on him. Know whether she needed to be in there as ballast to this unbroken storm.

"It's crazy," she says lightly, but her voice is so worn that disbelief doesn't touch it much. "This morning, he was dying." Her voice creeps softer. "He hadn't woken up for days, and I wasn't sure if he ever would." Not even when she crept into his room and prayed by his bed. Not when she left the note on his bed table this morning, saying they needed him. She did. "But then, there he was, in the desert. Blinding light and no part of him broken anymore."

Is there a whisper-sharp-edge to those words? Maybe.

Jo doesn't want to poke the strange edge of sadness. Envy. Abandonment.
Her feelings could wait for another day. Or week. Or year. Or never was good.

"He said he got all these memories of living through a long time back home, and he woke up better, aware of what had been done there and the very slim chance we might find a way to make it work here."