[ Watching her check herself over, it doesn't seem random. Knees, hands, shoulders. Nothing gives her pause, which strikes him as strange. He doesn't have notable scars or marks that he can surreptitiously check for without a mirror. The head wound Leon gave him, too shallow to be felt, right by his hairline. It can't possibly be there.

Hap's contemplative gaze sharpens up again, reading her notepad. This question he might have an answer for. ]

I am, back there. But I don't think this is death. [ A dismissive wave of his hand at the room. ] I've worked extensively with people who have died. I've heard dozens and dozens of descriptions. [ Hundreds. ] None of this fits.