If Geralt had initially been slowed by everything that happened from them, all of that hadn't registered for Jo— until she was back in free fall and landing half on Geralt, half tumbling into the hard pack, deep cracked ground, and the bloody, rent body of one of the slain wolves, the trap slamming hard so close she feels the friction ride her boot heel hot. It's too much all at once, and it reminds her there were deep claw gashes down one of her legs and so much else.

Everything is a jarring grumble of remembered pain falling off Geralt while Ciri screams his name, making Jo look up at her first. Jo finds where she's pressed herself back and already being grabbed up by Geralt again. Ebbing panic and relief are colors she recognizes on Ciri's face, better than the viciousness, shame, or grief from earlier. That's a balm against ... other things.

Fittingly, Dean suddenly shouts that question, but Jo is looking down at the top of whatever it was that was too close, and she still has the irrational urge to kick the metal thing, even though its top sank even with the floor. A reverse of the floating box from earlier. One down, one up. Dean's question echoes, but the answer is too long.

(And. The answer is ... it can't have been an eon of hours either.)

Geralt's just saying they go, without saying anything else, and fucking thanks for that, while Jo went to push up stand again, and she'd been certain she'd picked a solid chunk of floor and not the crack beside it. Still, by the time Jo'd thrown her weight on the flat of her hand and started to push up, it was falling, and then so was she. Again.