Heat crept up the back of Jill's neck—embarrassment, both that she'd misread the situation, and that her anxiety had been so obvious that both men were now speaking to her in determinedly calm tones. She ducked her head, accepting the bag with a nod and a muttered, "Thanks." Graceful under pressure she was not, though she genuinely appreciated their help amidst the continuing chaos. 

She could still feel her insides trying to come apart, but she wasn't about to palm a Xanax in front of a pair of strangers—and with nothing to wash it down, besides. So she simply shouldered the bag, ignoring the older man's attempt to play hero—[I]That seems a bit dramatic,[/I] she thought, probably unfairly—and instead firmly turning in the direction that their de facto leader was heading.

"Shit got weird," she said—still muttering, still watching her feet as she walked. Giving the man in the flowered dress an explanation seemed the least she could do, especially when he was being so nice…and no longer yelling.

One hand flicked restlessly around the diner in an expressive but vague gesture. "This place was totally normal when I got here. I took a table and, like an idiot, almost immediately spilled coffee on myself. I went into the bathroom to change, and then everything went to hell." She glanced up and then away again. "I heard someone come running in, and the next thing I knew, there was an actual [I]tiger[/I] in the next stall."

Jill shrugged one shoulder, as if she didn't really care if he believed her, one way or the other. And she didn't, not really—the diner was still falling apart around them, and there were certainly enough witnesses to corroborate her account. "The vines and stuff, it all started right around the same time."